


A New Life

by DJL



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Another one bites the dust, F/M, Minor Character Death, Movie AU The Naked Jungle, but he's terrible, so not a biggie, the killer ants draw first blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2019-11-05 09:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 51,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17915873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJL/pseuds/DJL
Summary: Belle DuLac agrees to marry Mr. Christopher Gold, sight unseen.  She's hoping for the best out of this new life...(Or, the one where I finally couldn't resist rumbelling the movie The Naked Jungle.  If you've never seen it, do yourself a favor and stop reading this stuff and go check it out, 'cuz it's rad.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Historical/Movie AU, vaguely turn of 20th century setting, also vaguely New Orleans-ish at start, then into the Amazon jungle. Or something. Not a historian or geographer, so any errors of either variety are 100% on me.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any of it.

It was surprisingly difficult to find a wife for a rich man.

Of course, the rich man in question _was_ nearing fifty years of age. 

And resided on the opposite side of the equator, on an isolated plantation in South America. 

And would need to be married in absentia, meaning his new bride never having opportunity to come face to face with her spouse until some months into their union.

Taking those circumstances into account, it stood to reason the pool of applications would tend to be rather shallow. 

Belle DuLac placed the latest application firmly into the ‘not suitable’ pile on the desk before her. She sat back in the generously upholstered chair to gaze out the window to where the rain fell in a steady thrumming, a constant and seemingly unending background to this time of year in New Orleans. In truth, with each application that she felt obliged to reject, Belle felt an accompanying surge of—relief? Anticipation?. She had been trying not to examine the sensation too closely, but it was growing stronger as she spent more time assisting with this nuptial search. She only wished she could identify what it was she was feeling, and why.

Perhaps she was afraid that if she did locate a suitable candidate, her one reliable social outlet would disappear? But no—the thought was dismissed almost as soon as it occurred. Mrs. Emma Gold had befriended the widowed Belle nearly a year ago, their mutual interest in women’s suffrage the initial reason for the bond, and if anything that friendship had only deepened with time. True, Belle had spent more of her time of late in company with Emma’s husband, Mr. Baden Gold, but that was a direct result of Emma’s recent confinement and delivery of the couple’s second child, little Rose. In fact, Belle thought of Baden as her friend these days as much as Emma, and she had no reason to think her amity was not entirely mutual. She had certainly been more than willing to be recruited into the couple’s search for a bride for Baden’s adoptive father, Mr. Christopher Gold.

That Belle had been willing to help Baden screen candidates for his father’s marital search had itself been a result of being at rather a loose end. Her connection to the suffragette movement stemmed from Emma, and with Emma’s activities curtailed towards the end of her pregnancy, Belle had felt less than equal to the task of forging ahead and advocating for her own place in the local chapter of the movement. One did not, it seemed, transition from being Gaston Dulac’s widow to outspoken proponent for the rights of women in just over two years. 

Sorting through letters of application and assembling suitable candidates, however—now that was a task with which Belle had direct experience. She sometimes thought back to the time when she had been simply Miss Belle Marchland, of use to her father in his business affairs, almost filling the position of personal secretary for him, before opportunity had presented itself in the person of Gaston Dulac. It often seemed like those memories belonged to someone else entirely—something out of a book she had read once. Perhaps that was it--she was afraid of losing her recently rediscovered usefulness? Belle pondered that solution for a moment, then dismissed it as well. There were myriad ways she could become similarly useful—competent secretarial skills were always in demand, even when it was a woman wielding the skills.

A groan sounded from across the darkening room before Belle could pursue her thoughts further. “My God,” a masculine voice continued, “she _can’t_ be serious.”

Belle smiled, rising to switch on the electric lamp in the study on her way to the partner desk in the study, a twin to her own, at which Mr. Baden Gold currently was seated, his dark head cradled in both hands.

“What does this one say?” she inquired, reaching a slim arm to the topmost letter in the pile of discards. Her quick perusal surprised from her a giggle, at the sound of which Baden Gold looked up with an answering smile.

“Did you get to the part where she promises a ‘high degree of maternal instinct’ based on her phrenology report?” he asked.

“Indeed,” Belle answered, stifling another giggle. “The next line, too, where she indicates her suitability for reproduction by providing her exact measurements, was quite—reassuring.”

Baden snorted. “She could likely be delivered of an elephant without trouble, with hips of that width, but I doubt ‘reassuring’ is how papa would take that information—nightmare-inducing, more like.” He sat back in his chair, rubbing both palms against his eyes, fatigue writ large across his countenance. 

“Hmm,” Belle hummed agreement, then “I don’t think I ever asked, but what exactly is the height of your papa?”

“Short,” came the immediate, though somewhat muffled, reply. “Well, shorter than I am, anyway. He would never be mistaken for one of the dwarfs, though—unlike certain other people present.”

“The dwarfs?” 

Baden glanced up, meeting her confused look with a light teasing. “It’s just what the native population is called, though Papa sometimes refers to them as the Liliputians. They make even him seem tall,” he added by way of explanation.

“As would I, I suppose,” Belle finished in understanding, her diminutive status being her one personal trait she genuinely would have wished otherwise. No one could cavil at her gently curling, red-brown tresses, nor at the large blue eyes framed in long lashes, and her figure itself, though slim, was adequately proportioned. But there was no way around her lack of height—she was the epitome of petite.

“You _are_ about a head shorter than Papa,” he noted idly, eyes taking on an almost speculative gleam for an instant, the look vanishing before Belle could be certain it had been there at all.

“Tea?” Baden suggested in the next breath, rising from his chair and moving to the door. Belle attempted to forestall him, but he gently waved her off. “I need a stretch—besides, I want to check on Emma and Rose.” 

Belle smiled gratefully and moved back to her desk, sinking into the chair with a soft sigh as her eyes landed on the most recent discard in her own pile. It was more a re-discard, she supposed; the applicant in question, a Miss Z. Greene of Kansas City, had already been declined on grounds of that recently reviewed quality: height. Baden had pronounced her admitted six foot status as rather _too_ Amazonian for his papa, in addition to being deficient in some of the other qualifications Mr. C. Gold was seeking—but she had proven tenacious, writing again to assure Mr. Gold’s proxies that she had already engaged a piano instructor, and that she felt certain she could spend the entirety of her married life in a rather stooped posture, to make of the difference in stature between her and her hoped-for husband. Really, the second missive had made Belle a bit uncomfortable, with its air of blatant desperation. Strange how so much of personality could be revealed by the written word alone.

Truth be told, she was beginning to despair of ever locating an appropriate match for Mr. Christopher Gold. It wasn’t exactly that there was a dearth of applicants—no fewer than sixty hopeful women had sent letters of inquiry, and the majority of them, initially at least, reported qualifications that were in line with the senior Mr. Gold’s expressed preferences.

It was at the next step of the whittling process that the breakdown in potential compatibility would usually begin. Belle recalled one applicant, a Miss Margie Smythe, who had balked at the absentia requirement of the marriage ceremony, insisting that Mr. Gold leave his estate and travel to Philadelphia to marry her in person. The fact that this would in effect require him to be absent from his lands almost an entire year didn’t seem to trouble her a whit. Another, Miss Cora Mills, had had very definite ideas about the comforts she would require to uproot herself to the Amazon. Belle had halted that candidacy swiftly, scenting what was little better than an attempt at extortion. A third, Miss Verna Billings , had seemed eminently suitable, and Baden had been on the point of writing to his papa that a wife had at finally been discovered, when at the last moment the poor creature had sent a rather shamefaced note calling off the entire affair, confessing that when faced with the realities of such an undertaking--a new life with an unknown man in a strange land--her courage failed her.

It certainly would take courage to agree to such a venture, Belle mused to herself, resuming her seat at the desk. It was, in fact, on the list of qualifications that Mr. Gold himself had written when he had initially contacted Baden regarding this enterprise. Belle sifted through the letters of application on the desk, locating the missive which had caused this quest to commence. The writing was precise, measured, nearly as lawyerly as Baden’s, and dated approx. 6 months ago. It was directed to Baden, of course—Belle actually couldn’t have said if Mr. Gold senior was aware even now of her role in attempting to promote his matrimonial intentions, though she vaguely assumed Baden would have mentioned it in the regular updates posted to his papa on the search’s progress.

It was this letter that she now held that had ultimately decided Belle to accept the position as assistant in the search for a bride, after first Emma and then Baden had pressed for her aid. She’d had no objection to the arrangement on any moral grounds; if anything, she thought it rather a romantic idea. Her initial demur had been entirely practical—how could she, not acquainted in the least with Mr. Christopher Gold, have any idea what would match his notion of a suitable partner for life?

Belle remembered protesting as much, and remembered too that Baden had chuckled, exchanging a glance with his wife, then immediately producing the letter Belle now held. “It’s all in there,” he had assured her. “A list of papa’s preferred qualities, rated from negotiable to necessary. Even a bit on potential financial arrangements should an annulment be required. My father is nothing if not thorough.”

A rather unladylike snort from Emma had accompanied this pronouncement. “That’s certain,” she had muttered, a wry expression that Belle couldn’t interpret crossing the blond woman’s face.

“Anyway,” Baden had continued, "if you could take a look and consider helping with the search, I’d definitely appreciate it. We both would,” his gesture encompassed Emma’s expanding figure; little Rose had just begun to make herself visible and Emma, usually so energetic, had begun to appear rather listless. Eager to help her new friends, Belle had promised to review the letter and deliver her answer the next day.

And Baden had been entirely correct when he referenced the thoroughness of his adoptive parent. The list of qualities, either required or expressly desired, was both quite comprehensive and firmly rooted in realistic expectations, none out of the usual range of accomplishments for a woman of gentle breeding. Belle read over the passages describing desired attributes again:

_“I’ve ordered that grand piano in the main parlor tuned—it would be as well to have someone who could play the thing.”_

_“For her to be a reader would be best. As you and Emma likely recall, the evenings are isolated here, and the available society has not enlarged to speak of in the decade since your departure.”_

_“Courage would be an indispensable quality—not to the degree of Joan of Arc, or even to that of your Emma—but it would be intolerable to have a woman around who squeaked at every animal that screamed nightly in the jungle, or balked at the occasional reversals of fortune that occur in this mode of life.”_

_“She must be open to the possibility of children, and of an age where it would be—conceivable—that she should be so blessed. I suppose it is hubris on my part, but I did bring this place, my home, into being through no little effort, and have invested thirty years of my life in its management and maintenance. It would please me past saying if I were to die in the knowledge that part of me would continue the place. Obviously, that desire would not be guaranteed just by the arrival of a child of my body; and I hope it goes without saying, Baden, that I would bear the child or children of the union no ill will should they ultimately decide, as you and Emma did, that my way of life was not their chosen path. Nor can I say that I have not already known the experience of fatherhood, as you have been and always shall be as a son to me. In fact, I believe it was the raising of you that has made me most desirous to repeat the process.”_

_“Above all, let her be a woman of intelligence. I know you would never allow me to be contracted to an idiot, my dear boy, but basic, sound common sense is so rare a thing, yet of absolute necessity in my wife. It is my belief that a marriage of unequal minds can be no true partnership—and as I know you and Emma share the notion, I have confidence you will succeed in discovering someone suitable. Of course, there are things that cannot be known until the moment of meeting, and should she find on coming face to face with me that the situation is—untenable—she should be assured that an annulment could be obtained, even here in the wilds. I would not have a woman bound to me by anything but her free choice.”_

Belle stood suddenly and carried the letter to the window, her feet impelling her to movement almost without conscious intent on her part. The nebulous sensation that had been troubling her for some time had grown ever stronger as she reviewed Mr. Gold’s list of qualities for his bride, and they passed through her mind again now, point by point, only this time accompanied by a reflection of her own attributes. 

Piano—she dearly loved to play, even now. Her papa had always enjoyed a tune of an evening, and even Gaston had been brought to an appreciation of her talent, on the rare companionable evenings they had spent at home. 

Reading—there was scarcely a time Belle could remember when she had _not_ had an affinity for books. It had been another aspect of her character cherished—indeed, encouraged—by her papa, though Gaston had been rather against the pastime. Her husband had had no ability to lose himself in the stories of others. It was an incompatibility Belle had only realized later was nigh as serious as Gaston’s fondness for drink had become. 

Courage—Belle had never thought of herself as particularly brave, but she had ever had a desire to travel, to see the world, to take in first-hand the adventures described in her beloved books. It had been a desire first forgotten during the early years of her marriage, then buried along with her husband, yet now it surged again, fresh and strong as in her early, carefree youth. Surely it was a form of courage, to covet such travels and new experiences? 

Children. One hand dropped to rest on her lightly corseted stomach. The corset was really unnecessary; her waist was no larger now, at 26, than it had been at 18, and her natural figure was such that the desirable slim waist for clothes was hers without tightening her laces beyond the minimum. She had thought, just once, that there might be a reason coming to leave off with corsets for a time—but that reason had gone, just as Gaston had done, that same terrible day over 2 years ago. Belle was distantly aware she remained dry eyed reflecting on that double loss, and was distantly surprised by it; she had certainly shed tears aplenty before now, though whether she had cried more for her dead husband or her dead hopes of motherhood she could not have said. But at least she had the certainty that it was entirely— _conceivable_ —that she could bear a child.

She acknowledged to herself now that this was the root of that elusive sensation building inside her for the last—weeks? Months? How long had it been that this idea had come to her mind? She couldn’t say for sure, she only knew that Mr. Gold’s written words of his vision of marriage, _“a true partnership,”_ now seemed emblazoned to her mind. If true, it would be so _different_ from her first union…and such an adventure…

Belle watched out the window as the rain started to ease, individually identifiable droplets now cascading slowly down the glass. Her eyes fixed on two of the raindrops, coursing slowly down the pane, both so like each other as to be indistinguishable, both melding in the end into the greater pool of moisture collecting at the bottom of the window sill. She had the oddest fancy that those two drops were the last two years of her life, moving placidly, untroubled and unchallenged by anything to change their course, identical each to the other, eventually joining the stagnant, unchanging pool that had become her life. And would remain her life.

Unless she chose a new path, instead…

* * *

Baden reentered the study, looking about for Belle when he saw she was not seated at her usual place at the desk. He found her standing by one of the large windows facing the street, the daylight coming through muted by the remains of the seasonal storm.

“It seems to be letting up a bit,” he observed, wondering if she was worried about getting home. They probably should call a halt for today; he’d joined her in review of the new applicants two hours ago, and he knew from Emma that Belle had arrived long before that. He walked over to her, opening his mouth to suggest that very course of action, but paused once beside her. Her breath was coming quickly, though her attitude otherwise was entirely, oddly still. He noticed her hand was clenched around a letter—one of his papa’s, by the handwriting—and she seemed paler than usual, her blue eyes a touch larger in that heart shaped face.

“Belle?” Baden said quietly, almost fearing to startle her. “Belle, are you well?”

“Perfectly well, thank you,” she assured him, still gazing out the window, and if her appearance had caused alarm, Baden was soothed by her voice. It was serenely calm. 

“Good. You’re likely tired, though. So am I, truth to tell. Emma sent me to fetch you, she thought we could end for today and have some tea, continue tomorrow at the same time, perhaps?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Belle responded, again in that calm tone, and there was a new note in it now, one of—assurance? Certainty? 

“Oh?” Baden asked, puzzled. Really, she was behaving rather strangely. “Why is that?”

Belle turned to face him now, her breathing returned to normal, the hand holding his father’s letter relaxed. Her blue eyes were perfectly serene as she said “Because I’ve found her. The wife for your father.” 

Baden’s confusion increased, as did his curiosity. Perhaps he really ought to get Emma, but--“Who?”

Belle lifted her chin a fraction, almost suggesting defiance, though her eyes continued to meet his in that same, steady gaze. 

“Me.”


	2. Chapter One

It was, Belle reflected, surprisingly easy to marry a stranger.

The logistics of her marriage to Mr. Christopher Gold had certainly been handled with almost startling ease; Baden, being both a lawyer and in possession of intimate knowledge of his adoptive father’s affairs, had made the way nigh impossibly smooth. Even the potential awkwardness of a proxy ceremony had been averted, with Baden standing in for his father, and Emma present as one of the witnesses to the union. Truth be told, Belle had been rather more inclined to laughter than any of the solemnity the occasion certainly ought to have prompted.

And so she was married, for the second time.

And her new life had begun.

Belle glanced out her cabin porthole with a rueful expression as outside the rain thrummed down in a steady, soft beating. She sighed, reflecting that if some portions of her new life were radically altered compared to her former existence, others had maintained an almost depressing sameness. At least, she mused, this was South American rain.

Her journey to meet her new husband was nearing completion. That too, had been handled with almost no inconvenience to herself, all arrangements made by Baden and all finances covered by Mr. Gold. Technically, she would be married to her new lord and master for almost three months before laying eyes on the man, but that auspicious event should take place any day now. This boat was the last vessel to which she would transfer, on the second to last stage of her journey to her new home. It was also perhaps the first time during the process Belle had had any time to herself to reflect on events. After announcing her candidacy to Baden and Emma, letters had flown back and forth to Mr. Gold’s plantation and to Gaston’s lawyers, alerting the former of the existence and particulars of the woman found to share his life and name, and finalizing arrangements for management of the affairs of the latter, now that Belle herself would be living on another continent. Gaston had had no other surviving family, and Belle’s circle of acquaintances had diminished during the period of her widowhood—as Baden and Emma themselves comprised the total of her current social contacts, her goodbyes were soon accomplished. Not, however, before first gleaning more second-hand information about her husband.

“He was the best papa to me,” Baden had shared. “And he didn’t have to be, which says something in itself.”

“How did he come to raise you?” Belle had been curious, never having heard the story of just how Baden had been adopted by Christopher Gold.

Baden’s face creased into a half-smile. “He said I just came out of the jungle one day,” he recalled. “Clothes torn, bruised, with a knot the size of an apple on my head. Wandered onto his lands, was found by one of the dwarves working on his property and brought to the main house.”

Belle was horrified. “What had happened to you?”

“That’s anyone’s guess, even now,” Baden grimaced. “I was too young to give a proper accounting. Papa says I didn’t speak at all for months after my arrival. Of course, he tried to find out where I might have come from, notified the authorities in the district, but no one had reported a missing child, and there hadn’t been any new settlers. Word would have gotten around if there had been—it’s not so populated an area that everyone doesn’t know everyone else’s business for at least a 100 mile radius. We found out later that there _had_ been a boat that had run aground in a storm, miles down the coast, about a month or so before I wandered into his life. There had been some settlers bound for another district aboard, from England and Canada, but when the manifest was obtained it hadn’t mentioned a child, either amongst the passengers or the crew. Papa always figured that was the most likely explanation, though, that somehow I had been aboard that vessel when—whatever happened, happened.”

“How old were you?”

Baden shrugged. “Who knows? Papa thought maybe 6 or 7; once I started speaking it was clear I’d known how, before. But I never regained my memory. And no one ever claimed me.”

“And he raised you as his own?” Belle concluded.

Baden nodded, smiling again. “I couldn’t imagine a better papa. I didn’t always make it easy on him, but we really only ever had the one serious argument.” Baden paused, rubbing his cheek, then shook his head. “And he was even right about that.”

Belle felt a moment’s misgiving. “Did he--hit you?” she asked, haltingly. She didn’t know how she would feel about a man being physically violent towards his child—for all his faults, Gaston had never been a violent man, to her or to anyone else. She was relieved when Baden shook his head in response.

“No. I hit him,” he admitted sheepishly. “In my defense, I was only 16. Papa said I packed quite a wallop for such a youngster—he almost seemed proud. Which, of course, only infuriated me more at the time.” He paused again, seemingly lost in the memory, then continued, a serious timbre shading his voice. “I know he’ll make a good husband. And a good father again, in time.”

Belle’s color had risen slightly and she had looked away, turning the subject to travel arrangements, realizing only later that she hadn’t been able to pursue the reason for the reported argument between father and son. 

She gained some enlightenment a few days later when speaking with Emma about her papa in law.

“He’s a fair man.” Emma had assured the new wife. “He runs his estate well, and does it directly too—doesn’t just pass off the management and live on the proceeds, like some. He can be ruthless, though. If he wants something, or wants to prevent something—” Emma stopped abruptly. “But he is fair,” she said again, with conviction. A half smile came to her face. “And he likes deals. If you make a bargain with him, and he gives you his word,” she paused, shrugged. “Well, it’s the only guarantee you’ll ever need.”

“Baden says he was a good father,” Belle observed.

Emma nodded. “He loves Bae. Any child would be lucky to have him as his father,” Emma agreed, then hesitated. Belle had the idea her next words were chosen with care. “He wouldn’t keep you there, either, if you felt you didn’t want to stay. That bit about the annulment, he means that. If he’s said it, he means it. He wouldn’t trap a woman into marriage.”

Belle felt a sudden insight. “Baden said that he and his father had only ever had one serious quarrel…?”

Emme nodded again. “About us—the two of us, Bae and me. Bae wanted to get married. I did too, but Gold…he thought we were too young.”

“You were 16?” Emma nodded.. “That is rather young, for such a decision,” Belle observed, though softly.

“It is, and Gold was right,” Emma said firmly, then her mouth twisted a bit. “Bae resented it at the time, but he realizes now it was the right course. After all, we did get married—eventually.”

“And had Henry—and now Rose,” Belle said. “What a pity Mr. Gold never got the chance to meet them.”

A look Belle couldn’t quite interpret crossed Emma’s face, gone in the next moment. “You never know. Maybe one day he will. In the meantime, there’s always the post. I’ve finished that sketch of him that you wanted,” and so the conversation had moved on.

In her cabin below decks Belle went to her letter case, opening it and rifling through the papers until she came to the sketch. Emma was an artist of some talent, and her offer to create a likeness of Mr. Christopher Gold had been one Belle could not refuse.  
“It has been ten years, so he’s likely to have aged a bit,” Emma had warned Belle on bestowing the drawing. Belle wondered as she gazed at the drawing now, what was likely to have changed.

The face in the sketch was lined, but lightly, and Belle didn’t think Emma’s fondness for her papa-in-law would have extended to physical flattery. So perhaps he would have a few more pronounced wrinkles? The physiognomy itself appeared sound, a strong nose and prominent forehead, with cheekbones so noticeable that perhaps he could do with a little more weight on his frame. The sketch was from chest up, and he was drawn in a suit, so Belle really had no idea of his girth, but both Baden and Emma recalled him ever being of a wiry build. If so, he would be again different from Gaston, who had been well above average height and a floridly handsome physicality and appeal. Belle supposed she would know soon enough for certain if such things would make any difference to her. She at least found Mr. Gold’s appearance intriguing, if the frequency of her returning to the sketch during her voyage was anything to judge by, and she supposed that was no bad indicator of their ability to get along, in the way of a married couple. Belle had no false modesty about her own appearance; she knew she was attractive, and widely admired, and did not doubt of her own ability to please as a wife...

As a _wife_. To a man she had never met—never spoken to—never embraced-- 

Belle realized the hand holding the sketch of her husband had started to tremble slightly. Abruptly she slipped the sketch back in with the rest of her papers, closing her case and standing up as she realized the rain had stopped sometime in the last half hour. It was high time, she decided, to take some air.

Belle ascended the narrow stairway to the top deck of the boat, her senses assailed simultaneously by the heavy, humid air, the piercing brightness of the sunshine and an onslaught of scents from jungle. She adjusted her wide brimmed hat and moved to the back—aft, she reminded herself—of the craft, her eyes lighting on the slight figure of the only other female passenger making this leg of the journey.

“Good morning, Sister Astrid.” 

The younger woman turned, a shy smile transforming the fatigue on her face as she saw Belle. “Mrs. Gold, good morning,” came the soft reply, then a look of sudden anxiety swept over her features. “But not Sister, not yet—I mean, I’m only a novice, so it’s only—I’m just—it’s Astrid.” 

Belle laughed gently. “My apologies, Astrid. You did tell me yesterday, I remember now. Are you feeling any better this morning?” The young woman had unfortunately been almost entirely confined to her cabin yesterday, though Belle strongly suspected anticipatory anxiety of their journey’s end played at least as much a role in Astrid’s current state as mal de mer.

“Much better, thank you Mrs. Gold. I’m just a little worried,” the young novice continued, confidingly. “I so want to do well out here. I’ve always felt such a strong calling to come to the Amazon.”

“With your calling, and such a willingness of spirit, I’m sure you’ll do very well,” Belle reassured the younger girl, and was rewarded with a smile of gratitude.

“I hope so. I had heard—you do hear things, of course, before the trip—others who have gone before, you know—only of course you don’t—that the Mother Superior at the Rio Negro Mission, she—but I shouldn’t be talking out of turn,” Astrid finished hurriedly, turning red and glancing away from Belle.

“Well, I do sincerely hope you meet with a congenial atmosphere at the Mission,” Belle covered for the young girl’s confusion, and again coaxed her companion to look back at her.

“You’re very kind, Mrs. Gold,” Astrid said gratefully. “Your husband must be so glad you’ll be rejoining him soon!”

Belle smiled engagingly. “Well, as to that, Astrid, I do hope he’s glad to see me, but only time will tell. We’ve never met each other at all until now, you see. But I’m confident we’ll suit,” she finished, the false bravado covering her own recent inner anxieties.

The novice looked shocked. “You—you’ve never— _met_ —your husband?”

“Good morning to you, ladies. And my I congratulate you on placing yourselves just so? Your presence enhances an already attractive view.”

Belle turned to the newcomer with a ready smile. Mr. Jefferson, decked in white with a loud purple and green checked kerchief tied jauntily about his neck, was rather an overwhelming presence, but to Belle, raised in New Orleans, he reminded her quite pleasantly of home. His dress and his manner both suggested he would have been quite at ease in a Mardi Gras atmosphere

His presence certainly seemed to overwhelm poor Astrid, who had subsided into what was likely for her an unnatural silence. She apparently made too tempting a target for Jefferson to resist a little teasing.

“I hope I’m not interrupting a sermon, Sister? I assure you I’m likely to stand far more in need of your services than Mrs. Gold. Though unlikely to benefit a fraction as much,” he added the flippant afterthought.

Belle hid a smile. “Astrid was just telling me she’s a novice, yet to take her final vows.” 

Jefferson straightened in mock dismay, placing a hand to his breast. “My sincere apologies! So, a half sister, then?”

“Excuse me—I left something in my room, and--and must go fetch it. Forgive me, Mrs. Gold.” Astrid scurried away, half frightened.

Jefferson and Belle watched her together. “I’m afraid I’ve frightened the half Sister away,” he remarked, remorse noticeably absent in his tone.

“I’m rather afraid it was I who did that. I’ve just been telling her I’ve never met my husband—she seemed rather shocked by the idea,” Belle admitted ruefully.

“It’s not that uncommon a way to marry in this area. She’ll become accustomed to it soon enough. If she stays, that is,” the last added offhandedly.

“If?”

“The climate is not the easiest. It’s also not uncommon for a woman to find it impossible to adapt to—whether she’s a bride of Christ, or the more mundane Man.” 

Belle laughed, glancing speculatively at her companion, and found the speculation being returned openly. She decided now was as good a time as any to air her suspicions—and, perhaps, get some answers. “I think you know all about me and my marriage to Mr. Gold. You haven’t said a word, but I think you know everything.”

Jefferson’s expression turned sly. “Not quite everything, my dear Mrs. Gold. But these things I do know,” he held up a hand, putting a finger down for each successive article, “your name was until recently Belle DuLac, you are 27 years old, you come from New Orleans, you married Mr. Gold by proxy, neither of you have ever seen the other.”

Belle laughed and her companion joined in. “You do know a great deal, and I’m glad. Now I can speak without fearing to shock.”

“Like I said, it’s not an uncommon way to marry in this place. And as Commissioner for this district, I am generally the one performing such ceremonies at this end. I might even take a more active role on occasion.” He explained as Belle looked the question.

“In New Orleans, Baden Gold stood in for his father during the proxy ceremony. Here, _I_ stood in for you. Would have been happy to continue in your role for the rest of your wedding night, for that matter—a fine looking man,your husband.”

Belle knew with a sudden certainty she was being tested in some way. Jefferson’s bright, mischievous eyes had a keen alertness in their depths. She had no idea what kind of response to his risqué remark he expected, or desired, so she hoped for the best, and was honest.

“I’m not sure if you hoped to shock me with that observation,“ she replied with an arch smile, “but as you noted yourself, sir, I _was_ raised in New Orleans. I’m certainly not unfamiliar with all manner of menage.”

Jefferson’s expression shifted in an instant from surprise to hilarity. He emitted a surprisingly high-pitched laugh, which went on long enough that he was actually wiping a tear of mirth from each eye as he finally responded. “Well said, madame. I could not have set such impertinence down better myself. Nor could your husband, for that matter—and his equal in a snubbing I’ve yet to encounter.” He looked her over once more, the mischief in his expression now entirely welcoming. “I am pleased,” he stated with finality. “I did hope to like you, Mrs. Gold, and I am overjoyed to find I shall apparently be able to do so without reservation. I have enjoyed the friendship of your husband for years—and _only_ his friendship,” he clarified, briefly serious, before reverting to what appeared to be his usual, near manic mode of expressing himself. “Unfortunately, he is not of my persuasion.”

Belle shook her head in mild reprimand at the tenure of his remarks, but could not help her answering laugh. Really, the fellow was quite shameless. Still, she too could not deny a feeling of amity towards the fellow.

“How many years have you known my husband?” she asked curiously.

“Oh, I was exiled here over a decade ago. With what befell poor Mr. Wilde, my family decided to take no chances of inviting similar scandal. My uncle has some influence in the government, so this post was found for me. Not exactly my first, second, or fifteenth choice of location—but highly preferable to a sojourn at Newgate prison.

I met Mr. Gold, of course, shortly after my arrival. Baden was living here then, and Emma—Emma Nolan, she was then—and her parents, dear souls that they were. They were Protestant missionaries, from America, so not exactly under my purview, but as I’m the sociable sort I made it my business to know something of everyone in this area. Not that they were alive much longer after I arrived. The disaster of ’91 saw to that.”

Belle nodded; she was aware there had been a natural disaster of some kind that had befallen this part of the Amazon about a decade ago, claiming the lives of Emma’s parents and causing Mr. Gold to have to rebuild a vast part of his property. According to Baden, it had been the main reason why the older Mr. Gold had not sought out a wife before now. “I knew something had happened around that time, but I’m not aware of many of the details. Some sort of fire, I think I heard?”

Jefferson glanced at her enigmatically, then looked back toward the river. “Something of the kind, Mrs. Gold. The exact happenings I’m afraid are shrouded in mystery even to this day. And even if the Nolans had survived the event, I likely would still have gravitated toward your husband for society—David and Mary Margaret Nolan were quite accepting, for missionaries, but still rather—earnest. Your husband’s cynicism suits me better, particularly as the only other alternatives this far up the Rio Negro are the nuns or Captain Jones.”

“Captain Jones? Who is he?”

Again a brief, guarded glance, odd to see in that open countenance, was directed Belle’s way. “Oh, just another plantation owner. Styles himself a Captain. Irish by birth,” this last noted with a sniff of disdain. “There’s no love lost between him and your husband.” Though delivered lightly, Belle somehow sensed a warning in that last sentiment.

“I suppose there may be rivalries for supplies or buyers for the lands’ crops, or even for the workers,” she hazarded, and was rewarded with a non-committal grunt from Jefferson. She glanced over at him and found his gaze had been arrested by a bright bird of moderate size, swooping to skim the top of the river.

“What sort of bird is that?” Belle inquired, watching. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen colors so vivid, even in books about the Amazon. It’s lovely!”

Jefferson’s mouth compressed to a thin line. “No,” he answered brusquely. “You wouldn’t have ever seen a bird like that in the books. They’re not usually seen this far out of the jungle. That we’re seeing them here, now, is cause for some concern.”

Belle waited for more, but when it became plain Jefferson had done, she shrugged slightly. “It seems very mysterious,” she observed lightly.

Jefferson pushed abruptly away from the railing, his former gaiety returning to his countenance, though to Belle’s eyes it seemed a bit forced. “Let us be optimistic, Mrs. Gold, and hope it remains just that—a mystery.”

“Well, and speaking of mysteries,” Belle picked up the reins of their former discussion, “you still haven’t told me anything personal about my husband.”

Jefferson paused, then, with the return of the gravity that was unsettling to see in a face usually so expressive of mirth, replied in measured tones, “I’ll say this, Mrs. Gold. In about a week, I’ll make my way back up the Rio Negro, and will honor the Gold household with my company for an evening or two. By that time, you’ll likely know more about Christopher Gold than I do.”

* * *

It was dawn the next morning when Jefferson next encountered young Mrs. Gold. She was again delectably attired, this time in shades of ivory and palest rose. He let his eyes wander over her charming figure. By George, Gold was a lucky fellow! Though Jefferson’s own preferences lay decidedly in another direction, he could still appreciate fine specimens of the opposite sex, and Belle Gold was as fine an example of feminine charms as he had yet encountered in the Amazon. Wit she possessed too, and was refreshingly worldly in her outlook.

It made her presence here all the more puzzling.

Jefferson cleared his throat and the object of his musings turned, smiling a welcome, looking as calm and at home as he imagined she would on a punt up the Thames—or on a boat excursion on that river in her native patria, what the devil was it called? Oh yes—the Mississippi. Bit silly name, in Jefferson’s opinion, but then these Yanks were nothing if not eccentric.

“Good morning,” he said, coming up beside her to rest his arms on the boat’s railing.

“Isn’t it, though? Simply glorious,” she responded, a bit dreamily. “I’ve been admiring the river. It’s so quiet now, and with the mist…it almost puts me in mind of Tennyson.”

It was too quiet, but Jefferson was not about to re-open that topic with his companion. Let her become alarmed if—when, his mind insisted, though he bade it hush—necessary, not before. “The Lady of the Lake?” he said instead, “I suppose it does. Hadn’t thought of that before.” He paused, then, “Fitting that you should make the connection, being in a sort her namesake. DuLac.”

“Indeed.” Mrs. Gold smiled softly, then straightened and turned away from the river as the morning call of some unidentified jungle animal finally broke the silence. “Though I’m not truly her namesake. DuLac was my husband’s name; I was born a Marchland.”

Jefferson shot her a quick, surprised glance. “Your husband?” he echoed.

Mrs. Gold nodded. “I’m a widow—or was, I should say.” She turned to face him, dimpling appealingly. “It’s still rather strange to think of myself as Mrs. Gold, having never met the actual owner of my new name,” she confided, a light blush coming to her cheeks.

Jefferson recovered himself enough to say “Well, that meeting shan’t be postponed too much longer. We’re only an hour or so out from the dock now. Best start getting your things together.”

Mrs. Gold’s blush faded abruptly, her cheeks becoming pale. She swallowed, then recovered herself sufficiently to give him a small smile and nod of thanks, taking herself off the next moment to the stairway leading belowdecks.

Jefferson turned back to the river, his mind racing. So, a widow, was she? That little fact could go a great deal towards explaining her presence here at the very edge of civilization, and her willingness to wed a complete stranger. Perhaps she was not even truly a widow at all, but a madam ready to exchange her former infamy for some relatively comfortable obscurity, and by travelling halfway around the world she would guarantee her secret would be safe—. But no. Jefferson shook his head at his own dramatic suspicions. This woman, he reminded himself, had been known personally by Baden and—more importantly—by Emma. Jefferson was not sure Baden Gold could not be taken in by a pretty face, but he was confident the Emma Gold he knew would have seen through such an imposition and halted such a scheme before it got off the ground. There could be no doubt then that this new Mrs. Gold was just what she appeared to be—a respectable, charming, beautiful--

 _Widow_.

That did make for quite the turn of events. Jefferson was aware of course of the existence of the previous Mrs. Christopher Gold—the documentation of the annulment was among the papers in Christopher’s file, papers meticulously kept by Jefferson’s predecessor. He was also well aware of the reason given for the annulment. Of course, that whole affair had taken place years before Jefferson himself had been exiled to the Amazon, and Jefferson had never quite had the courage to broach the subject with his friend. But if the reason given in the papers was true… and there had certainly never been a woman at the Gold house for any length of time since Jefferson had been in commissioner…besides Emma, but she and Baden…

Of course, it could be that Gold had a paramour, somewhere on his lands, and was simply incredibly discreet. Discretion was, after all, something Jefferson himself had little experience with, personally…but somehow, Jefferson rather doubted that to be the case. So there was Christopher Gold, alone, isolated on his lands in the Amazon. And there was that documented prior annulment, and the reason given…

And now here was the new, young, very attractive Mrs. Gold, revealed to be no blushing innocent, but a widow.

Jefferson sighed. First those damned birds, now this. It appeared life on the Rio Negro was about to become quite interesting.


	3. Chapter Two

It was surprising how many people were present that morning, waiting on the dock for the boat to put in.

Astrid stood beside Belle at the railing, and the young novice gasped audibly when the crowd first became visible. Even Belle, former denizen of New Orleans and thus familiar with just how populated a busy quay could become, had rarely witnessed such a crowd gathered in one location.

It wasn’t just the number of people gathered, either—it was the striking _difference_ between this gathering and all others Belle had ever encountered before when a boat was coming in. Usually a busy dock equated to a cacophony of noise and an intensity of activity; in New Orleans, there had been enormous variety in the persons dockside as regarded their skin, hairstyle, mode of dress, accent, language…

Those present at Mr. Gold’s dock presented by contrast a startling uniformity. Almost entirely male, almost entirely dwarves—if stature was anything to go by. And most unique of all, almost entirely silent, still—watchful.

It was quite unnerving. 

Belle confided as much to Jefferson, who joined the two women at the railing as their boat made a final maneuver to slide smoothly up to the dock. “I’ve never seen such a stillness,” Belle observed, keeping her tone even with some effort. She would not be nervous now. “And why do they stare so?”

“They’re here to see you,” Jefferson responded, surveying the crowd. “I’d wager every dwarf who could find any semblance of an excuse to come to this humble port is here today—in addition to many others who have no excuse at all. Not that I blame them,” he continued, turning slightly to face his female companions. “If I were in their place, I suppose I’d be curious, too.”

“Curious?” Belle echoed. “About us? But why? Are there really so few new visitors to this place?”

“That’s part of it. Most of it is because _you_ , Belle Gold, are now the second most powerful person on this estate.” Jefferson smirked a little at Belle’s startled reaction. “This is a very different world than the one you’ve left behind, Mrs. Gold. We’re on your husband’s land now, in the middle of the jungle. Aside from my poor authority, there is no law to check the planters. Out here, your husband has more power than a king. And as you are now his queen,” Jefferson finished with a theatrical wave to the crowd, and directed a half bow toward Belle, “your new subjects have come to take stock of you.” 

Belle gazed out at the sea of faces turned towards her, silent, stoic, staring. She again felt anxiety starting to build from her core and claw up into her chest. Ruthlessly she crushed it. This was decidedly _not_ the time to lose her courage. These were her husband’s adopted people, and thus would be hers—she would _not_ fear them. A memory surfaced the next instant, inspired. Four years ago, she and Gaston had been crowned the king and queen of a Mardi Gras banquet; the details were vague in Belle’s mind, but she recalled the pomp of the faux rites, and how proud Gaston had been of his little wife, playing the queen to such perfection. 

A role, it seemed, she was destined to assume again. Belle lifted her chin slightly, squared her shoulders and smiled, seeking to mold the benign and the regal into one lilting curve of her lips.

She heard Jefferson laugh softly beside her. “You’ll do, Mrs. Gold,” he remarked approvingly. “By George, you’ll do.” 

The next half hour was a flurry of activity on the boat, as the two passengers who were disembarking here, and all the resultant luggage, were organized as efficiently as possible. Belle and Astrid stood together to one side while Jefferson directed the ship’s crew in handing off the women’s baggage, Belle’s more numerous items making an impressive and hefty pile. The two women were quiet, the continued hush of those around them suppressing any desire either might have had to speak. Not that Belle felt inclined to conversation; she was torn between an almost overwhelming curiosity about everything and everyone within view, as part of the new landscape of her life—and a steadily increasing sensation of pique, that her new husband was not immediately on hand to welcome her.

Belle scanned the sea of faces present, hoping to find one that matched with Emma’s sketch, but saw only face after face belonged to a dwarf. They certainly were small of stature—Belle realized with something like shock that here she, who had been short all her life, would now be amongst the taller denizens. Most were dressed in serviceable, sturdy working clothes of earthen tones, so that when a man in white appeared his presence was doubly impressive, first by the color of his garments, then by dint of his height. He was perhaps the tallest man Belle had ever seen. Gaston had been over 6 foot, but this fellow would have towered over Gaston. His head was bald and his clothes were well pressed and pristine, the uniform whiteness broken only by a sedate kerchief tied about his throat. He moved through the throng without effort, clearly making his way toward the two women, until he was stopped about 20 paces away by a trio of dwarves. Belle was too far away to hear anything of their exchange, but it was clear that one spoke on behalf of the other two, and that some entreaty was being made. Belle watched as the man in white fished some kind of small trinket—perhaps a ball?—from a pocket, handed it to the dwarf speaking, and nodding at the other two before gesturing back the way he had come. 

“Novice Astrid? Novice Astrid?” A commanding tone interrupted Belle’s observation of the scene, and she turned to see a rather slight woman in a nun’s black habit striding up the dock towards the pair of arrivals. Belle’s first sensation was that the poor woman must be sweltering in such clothes, in such a climate; her second, arriving quickly after the first, was an instinctive knowledge that this woman neither needed nor would welcome any pity. 

“Ah, the formidable Mother Superior arrives to collect her latest victim—ah, novice,” Jefferson whispered in Belle’s ear.

Belle couldn’t help smiling, it was such an apt summation. Mother Superior came to a halt a few feet from them, taking the trio in with a glance that made Belle feel she had been evaluated and dismissed in an instant’s time.

“Novice Astrid?” The woman addressed Astrid directly and on receiving the girl’s nod, continued on in the mode of one used to being obeyed. “Well, you seem to have arrived in one piece, which is never guaranteed on such a voyage, and with such company,” her gaze slid obliquely to Jefferson, then back to her new novice. “Do you have any luggage?” Astrid motioned to one small bag at her feet. Mother Superior nodded briskly. “Have one of the dwarves take it to the carriage. Not that you’ll require anything beyond what awaits you at the Mission, but such items as you’ve brought can doubtless be made useful by the needy in this region.”

The woman half turned, apparently in no doubt of Astrid’s ready obedience, and a look of quick surprise flashed across her countenance as Astrid called a trifle haltingly, “Mother Superior? I did want to introduce you to Bel—Mrs. Gold. She was ever so kind to me on the boat that brought me here, and I believe her husband’s plantation is close to the Mission?”

Mother Superior’s gaze focused on Belle, and the latter again had the uncomfortable feeling of being intently analyzed and found wanting, all in the space of an second. “Indeed? Welcome to the jungle, Mrs. Gold,” Mother Superior said coolly, with a slight inclination of her head. 

“Mother Superior,” Belle returned the nod just as coolly, something about this woman making her uncomfortable. “The Mission is gaining a fine addition in Novice Astrid. She has spoken to me of the strength of her calling and her willingness to be useful in any way.”

“I’m sure,” Mother Superior’s lips thinned briefly, then a smile, the purpose of which was a mystery to Belle as it seemed to convey more malice than mirth, creased the woman’s mouth. “The Mission is certainly grateful for any kindness done to its postulates—surprising though it is to have kindness from one bearing the surname Gold.” Jefferson stirred next to Belle, but the other woman took no notice. “Please know that the Mission will be ready to assist you, in future, Mrs. Gold, as a place of refuge, should you ever have need.”

Belle was surprised. “I can’t think what refuge I would need—”

“Once acquainted with your husband, I fear you will understand my concerns soon enough,” Mother Superior interrupted briskly. “It is my duty to offer help to those in need, and I would be remiss not to extend such assistance to you. Come, Novice Astrid.” 

Mother Superior again turned and started back across the dock, heading to a rather spindly looking carriage stopped just outside the throng of dwarves. One dwarf moved quickly to pick up Astrid’s small bag and rush after the departing black robes and Astrid, after a last glance of mixed apology and concern directed at Belle, and a soft “Good-bye, Commissioner,” to Mr. Jefferson, hurried to follow.

“What could she possibly have meant?” Belle asked, bafflement warring with indignation. 

Jefferson spoke up for the first time since Mother Superior had been sighted. “It’s rather a long story, I’m afraid. Summed up Mrs. Gold: your husband and the Mother Superior do not see eye to eye.”

Belle had to laugh. “Thank you, Mr. Jefferson, but I had rather worked _that_ out for myself. What I cannot understand is why a stranger would offer me refuge from my husband at her first opportunity?”

Jefferson paused a beat, and when Belle turned to meet his gaze she noted the curious sobriety that occasionally crossed his features had again returned. Belle had the impression he was choosing his words with care. “There have been several areas of disagreement between them--though none really recent. The last major point of contention was about ten years ago—when Emma was in residence at the Gold plantation.”

Jefferson seemed to be watching her reaction closely, but all Belle felt was slight surprise. “I hadn’t realized Emma and Baden lived with Mr. Gold for any length of time after the wedding,” she offered, unsure what the young couple could have to do with the matter. “Was there some theological disagreement perhaps, as Emma’s parents were missionaries themselves?” she hazarded.

Jefferson’s eyes slid away from her own. “It was a time of discord on many fronts and, as I said, a long time ago. The good Mother Superior may simply have been trying to score a point against your husband for old times’ sake—spiteful bat that she is.” Good humor returned abruptly to his voice and countenance and he raised his voice, once again gaily pitched, “But here’s a face to gladden a heart after a long journey. Mrs. Gold, may I present Dove, your husband’s estate manager. He’ll look after any needs you may have—and many you didn’t realize you had.”

Belle turned and had the immediate impression of being beside a giant. The man in white she had noted earlier was just as impressive up close as he had appeared from afar. “Mr. Jefferson,” his deep voice intoned soberly, bowing first to the commissioner and then to Belle herself. “Mr. Gold is sorry to have missed seeing you today, and desolated to not be able to meet you in person on your arrival, Mrs. Gold. Urgent business took him into the jungle last night, and he has yet to return. I am his emissary, and will make certain, Mrs. Gold, that you arrive at your new home in safety and comfort.” 

Dove turned back to the crowd of dwarves still present on the dock, spoke some rapid words in a language incomprehensible to Belle, and was answered by a shouted response from the crowd in the same tongue. 

“We think you are very beautiful,” Dove translated to Belle, “and hope you will be very much in love with us. I am Mr. Gold’s number one man. Whatever you wish, you have only to say, and it shall be done.” 

“Not a promise to be depended on from most, Mrs. Gold, but with Dove here, you’re in absolutely safe hands,” Jefferson noted smilingly. “Tell Mr. Gold I’ll stop on my way back down river, Dove. I, too, have urgent business that calls me into the jungle immediately.” Some look impossible to interpret passed between the two men and then, with a half bow to Belle and a jaunty wave to the entire population on the dock, Jefferson re-boarded the boat and in moments was drifting away on the shimmering water.

Belle gave a soft sigh and opened her parasol. The mid-morning heat was beginning to make itself felt, and in truth she would be very glad to continue her journey and get out of the strong sunshine, sooner rather than later. She acknowledged to herself disappointment that her husband had not been the one to meet her, but was also conscious of some measure of relief that it had turned out thus. At least she would have a bit more time to prepare before the ultimate encounter, and perhaps a chance to wash and change…

Dove had been arranging for some of the available dwarves to carry her luggage and store it on the waiting carriage while Jefferson had taken his leave. That task now being accomplished, he motioned to Belle to follow and led the way to her equipage, which fortunately seemed to be far more sturdy than the Mission’s transportation. Dove handed her in, took the reins from the dwarf waiting at the head of the horses, and they set off.

Belle looked eagerly around her for the entire perhaps quarter hour of the journey, noting with interest the vast landscape, the planting fields, the busy hum of activity almost everywhere within sight. At last the house came into view, and Belle caught her breath in admiration. It was a jewel of a house, one story and sprawling, white and shining, with countless varieties of flora and fauna twining about it that provided exotic décor.

Dove halted the carriage at the bend of the drive and a quick shout, again in the unknown language, brought several dwarves out and down the steps to help with the baggage. Dove assisted Belle from the carriage, then led her into the house, which was deliciously cool and shadowed after the bright, oppressive heat outside. It was, Belle noted, much bigger than it appeared from the front drive—a large courtyard, which had a variety of birds and other wildlife secured in a semicircle, formed the center of the dwelling, with four corridors which she assumed led to the multiple wings of the estate fanned out from the center ring. Belle heard the words “library” and “servants’ quarters,” “dining area” and “guest quarters” murmured in Dove’s low tones, but a wave of exhaustion had come upon her and she really couldn’t take much in. After completing perhaps half the circuit of the courtyard, they came upon four dwarves lined up as if in presentation. One, a woman perhaps some ten years senior to Belle, stood slightly forwarder than the others. She was quite strikingly beautiful, though at the extreme of petite; indeed, Belle again had a feeling of unreality as she realized that, though still short compared to Dove, who would be tall in any company, she was a head above average height amongst most of the people here.

“This is Isla Pots, your number one woman,” Dove introduced the beautiful woman to Belle. “She also is the chef here. It was not clear if you would be bringing a maid with you, or would require one here. Until you decide what you would wish, Pots will be at your service.”

“Thank you all,” Belle said sincerely, nodding to Pots and to the other servants as well. “I’m very happy to meet you, Mrs. Pots,” she added more particularly.

“Yes, ma’am,” Pots smiled. “If you will come this way, I can take you to your rooms.” Belle followed the other woman, who led to her to a suite just connecting off the main corridor, directly opposite the front entrance to the house. Belle noted the lightness of the furniture, the sedate, calming color scheme—blue and cream, with accents of gold—and, blessedly, the connecting bathroom, complete with a still steaming bath. Her luggage already was settled in and around the wing chairs in the room’s sitting nook. “Dove sent word ahead of your arrival, ma’am, and I thought it would be pleasant for you to wash and lie down before dinner.”

“Indeed, it would be pleasant to do so,” Belle agreed fervently. “Thank you, very much.” 

“Yes ma’am,” Pots said again, smiling a bit wider. “Ring here,” indicating a bell pull by the door, “if anything else is required,” she finished, then nodded and withdrew, closing the veranda-style doors softly behind her.

Belle untied her hat, casting it atop the pile of waiting luggage. She felt entirely drained, a physical and emotional listlessness threatening to overwhelm her. And, she thought wryly, her gaze wandering the room tiredly and landing on the elegant four poster bed at one end of the room, I’ve still yet to meet my husband.

Well, perhaps they would meet at dinner. The Pots woman would surely have told her if the household expected Mr. Gold sooner, and a bath and a lie down would never have been encouraged if Mr. Gold was going to knock at the door to her rooms at any moment. Brought to giddiness by the strain of the day, Belle mused whimsically on the odds that Mr. Gold might not exist at all here—that perhaps she had been whisked away by some mischievous fairies to an isolated, enchanted castle…

The bath certainly seemed enchanted. Steaming and fragrant, with a scent Belle could not identify but was intoxicating nonetheless, its presence would have represented lure enough to remain. Belle hurriedly stripped her travel stained garments, draping them over one of the wing chairs and, opening one of her bags, selected a lovely marigold yellow negligee and fresh petticoats for wear once she got out. Deciding against washing her hair just yet, she instead thoroughly soaked her body, allowing the heat to carry away the signs of travel and lull her tired brain even further towards slumber. When at last the water began to cool, she reluctantly stepped out, dried herself, and put on the undergarments, leaving the negligee for when she woke. Walking slowly towards the massive bed, she collapsed gratefully onto the soft covers, and in the next moment drifted into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

Gold arrived as the shadows began to lengthen, riding into the courtyard of his home, exhaustion making the lines in his forehead more pronounced than usual. His lips were compressed, mouth tight, reflective of the unpleasant tone of his thoughts over the last day and a half. He had ridden out after the drums had been heard for three consecutive nights, half fearing what he would learn, half knowing already what would be reported when he arrived at the village. After all, the drums were never sounded unless the need was urgent, and the danger grave. The last time they had sounded three nights running had been ten years ago—when the _marabunta_ had come…

Gold shook away the onslaught of unpleasant memories and regrets from that time, returning to the present with a stern shake of the head. It did no good to dwell on the past. The choices he and others had made could not be altered. All he could do now was try to ensure such a disaster did not repeat itself—and for that, he needed to speak to Jefferson. Quickly.

Dove appeared, seemingly out of thin air. It was a useful trait of his. “Trouble?” he asked quietly, his dark eyes roaming Gold’s face and apparently finding little comfort there. 

“Could be,” Gold acknowledged shortly. “I need to talk to Jefferson.”

“He was here, earlier. Arrived with the boat and left with it. Asked me to tell you he would see you on his return downriver.”

So. Jefferson had already heard, too. It still could be a mistake, a false alarm, an overreaction. That would certainly be understandable, given the devastation wrought a decade ago—

Those thoughts would represent his hope, certainly. In the meantime, best to act as if the worst possible outcome was in fact occurring. “I’ll need you to leave, in 2 days’ time. Go upriver with some of the dwarves—pick men you can trust not to flee at the first sight. Find out—for sure.” 

Dove nodded. He was a good man, Dove. Never a need to waste words, and not one to stall a man when he desperately longed for a bath and bed--

“There are two other matters, Mr. Gold,” Dove continued placidly as Gold had turned toward his chamber.

Gold sighed. “Do they need my immediate attention?” he demanded pettishly, regretting it the next moment. Dove would never have mentioned it if it was something that could wait, he knew that. He was just so damned tired. “Go on,” he finished.

Dove, understanding soul that he was, took no notice of Gold’s irritable mood. “Two runaway dwarves arrived at the dock this morning. I agreed to provide them protection in your name.”

“Hmm,” Gold grunted. “Fleeing the pirate, I presume?”

Dove nodded.

“Gave them the usual cover story?”

Dove again nodded.

Gold grunted again. It was a good story, one that Dove himself had concocted, though they’d never had need to use it so far. With the number of runaways increasing lately, though—Gold made the sudden connection, that perhaps this increase in flight to his lands may have something to do with the other, larger problem. If so, he would have to speak to these runaways. Even the rumor of _marabunta_ would be enough to cause panic among the men…

“I’ll need to speak to them. Tomorrow, early.” Not this evening. Not when he was so tired he was about to drop where he stood. “Tell Pots that dinner can be—"

“There is one additional matter, sir,” Dove continued smoothly, and Gold stared at him in surprise. Dove interrupting him was almost unheard of. There was a curious gleam in the large man’s eyes that Gold would have identified as amusement, if such an emotion were not usually alien to his estate manager—and rather inappropriate, considering the recent topic of discussion.

“What is it, Dove?” Gold demanded, allowing a shade of testiness to color his tone. 

“Another passenger arrived on the boat today, sir. Your wife. She and her luggage were collected and shown to her quarters. Pots also asked me to inform you that dinner will be ready at the usual time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, they were supposed to actually meet by now, but this got long--some folks demanded actual screen time (side eyes Blue Fairy). They'll meet next time. Pinky promise :)


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was distracted this week by so much glorious new fic released for Rumbelle Big Bang! Excellent work, all!

It was surprising, Belle reflected on waking, how soundly she could sleep--even in the most trying circumstances. Her father Maurice had often opined that her sleeping as one dead was nature’s way of balancing Belle’s waking hours of impulsivity and constant activity. Belle smiled faintly, eyes still closed against the light slanting across the bed from the slats across the room, recalling her papa’s playful looks as he had gently teased his only child…

At length Belle opened her eyes and turned from her side onto her back, allowing her gaze to wander idly over the bedroom— _her_ bedroom. Shadows now fell at different angles across the furniture and floor, so some hours had likely passed. The sunlight that had fallen on the bed and woken her was noticeably dimmer than the mid- morning glare had been, though that could be the effect of being filtered in through the slatted upper parts of the walls. She supposed the room was constructed thus for ventilation, though it would also mean that conversations carried on in tones above a hush would lack a certain privacy. The thought drifted into her mind, unbidden, that the same privacy would be lacking in other activities too, activities of the nightly, conjugal variety…

Belle felt the strangest combination of inner agitation and outer listlessness. The heat, she thought determinedly, pushing any other thought away, must have affected her more than she had realized.

She sighed deeply and sat up the next moment, giving herself a small shake. Of course, it wasn’t the heat—or not _only_ that. New Orleans could be sweltering and would have no damper on her spirits. No, Belle knew what it was, what had preyed on her peace of mind since she first rose that morning. She could provide a name, even a face, to the culprit, courtesy of Emma’s sketch. What she couldn’t conjure up was his manner when with her, his hands when upon her, the look in his eyes as they beheld her person… 

Would he be playful with her? Admiring? Dismissive? Disappointed? Where was he, her _husband_ , whom she had traveled hundreds of miles to be with? The stranger she was bound to by vows spoken in front of witnesses, though she had never yet heard his voice? The man she had yet to meet, yet to speak with—

Yet to lie with.

Belle forced a deep, slow breath into her lungs, then sank back into the comfort of the large four poster bed and gazed up into the gauzy canopy. She assumed the curtains would be drawn about the bed when she—when _they_ —retired for the night, both for the slight increase in privacy thus afforded, and for the more practical purpose of keeping out the insects. She tried to imagine being shut in thus, with her stranger-husband, and was unable to stop a flush burning from low in her belly straight through to her skin. She was suddenly lightheaded, palms sweating, and again took some deep breaths in an attempt to calm her pounding heart and halt her racing thoughts, threatening to become an ungovernable tangle of anxiety. Of _course_ it would be awkward. Of _course_ there was liable to be some embarrassment—but, it would no doubt be so for him, too. Her fevered brain latched tight to that thought, that his anxieties were likely similar, that this encounter would likely be as difficult for _him_ as it was for her. Oddly, it was that notion that calmed her as nothing else had, and after a few more deep breaths she felt her accustomed equanimity returning. 

At least there would be none of the virgin’s pain for her on this, her second wedding night. She had gone to Gaston an innocent, though a perfectly willing--even eager--innocent. Physically, Gaston had been the epitome of all a young girl could imagine, the fairytale prince of her childhood storybooks brought to life. He had not been cruel, or deliberately hurt her-- Belle did not doubt he would have been gentle, had it occurred to him that gentleness was needed. Unfortunately, her first husband’s nature in their marital relations, as in all areas of his life, had been one of rather hasty carelessness. Gaston had been a character of surface charm and shallow depth, casual and unthinking, but also untouched by malice. Belle had known him to be kind, when the impulse struck him. It was simply that he was rarely still long enough to be so struck. There had not been anything she could complain of specifically, or point to afterward as a sign of warning she aught to have heeded before marriage. She had wished he would not drink so much, but all his companions drank. She had wished he would find some purpose in life to direct his energies to—but all his companions were idle. And he had been so young.

They had _both_ been so young. 

She had just begun to think that perhaps the coming child would steady him, when-- there had been no child, and no Gaston. There had only been herself.

She had sincerely grieved, both Gaston and her lost chance of motherhood. But with the greater objectivity that only time could grant, she had come to acknowledge the shortcomings of her first union. The two of them had never been truly well suited. Just as they might have grown together, they might as easily have grown apart. In many ways, she had married a stranger when she had married Gaston. Belle felt her lips twist wryly. It seemed a pattern she was fated to follow.

The sounds of a commotion outside startled Belle from her ruminations on her past—and current—marital unions, and she hurriedly rose from the bed to peek out the slats facing the courtyard. A man had just entered on horseback, riding his mount into the midst of the courtyard. The man’s face was shadowed under a wide brimmed hat, and he and his horse were dusty and appeared, even from Belle’s vantage, fatigued. Dove had joined the man now, who swung down from his horse to stand and confer with the tall estate manager for some moments. 

Belle watched avidly, trying to take in every detail she could about the new arrival. That this was, finally, Mr. Christopher Gold, there could be no doubt. Other dwarves came up while her husband conferred with Dove, taking the horse’s reins to lead the animal away, presumably for a feeding and scrub down. Mr. Gold would surely seek to bathe before dinner too, and Belle let out the breath she’d been holding, reassured that the meeting she’d been anticipating all day would likely be put off a little bit longer, and irritated with herself at the reaction.

As if some bad fairy had heard her sigh of relief, Mr. Gold’s head suddenly snapped toward Belle’s room. She froze, watching him run his eyes over the door to her chamber, then he straightened and strode across the courtyard, rather with the air of one needing to put a bad business behind him.

Belle backed away from her vantage point, then fled to the bathroom. Once behind this second set of doors she again dragged a deep breath into her chest once—twice—three times. After exhaling for the third time, she heard the door of her room open. 

“Mr. Gold, madame,” a low-pitched voice announced, the faint trace of a Scottish accent still discernible in the words.

Belle opened her mouth to respond but found she couldn’t. Dry. She was so dry. She swallowed hurriedly, called “I’ll be right out,” and was distantly pleased that her voice had been steady. She looked about her, suddenly intensely aware of her lack of attire. Her lovely golden embroidered negligee caught her eye, hanging on a convenient hook, and Belle was struck by the appropriateness of the garment—gold, for Gold. She felt a near hysterical giggle bubble up as she put it on quickly, moving to the mirror to adjust the frills and tie the belt just so. She spared a brief glance at herself, her color high, her hair down, her figure displayed to advantage. She swallowed again, another memory from the past assailing her, this time one of her mother’s favorite aphorisms: 

_“Do the brave thing, and bravery will follow.”_

Belle opened the bathroom door and walked into the bedroom.

Her initial impression was one of a powerful presence and high energy, both under tight control. The combination somehow made the man who stood some feet away appear larger, though he was really not much above her in height. He stood just inside the doorway, still dusty, shirt stained a bit with the business of riding in the heat, boots caked with mud. He held the broad brimmed hat he’d been wearing earlier in one hand, along with what could have been either a riding crop or a whip. His eyes, the same eyes that had journeyed with her from New Orleans by means of Emma’s sketch, took in Belle’s appearance in a comprehensive glance from head to foot, then swept back over her again, the only noticeable reaction a slight widening, before coming to rest on her face.

“You’re not dressed, madame,” he observed evenly, his voice taking on a deeper cadence, the words roughened a bit. He paused, eyes now scanning her face, then with a brief, “I’ll come back,” he turned as if to leave. 

Belle stepped forward quickly. “I’m not undressed,” she countered, a bit breathless, aware that her behavior and her attire likely appeared forward in the extreme. But, after all—“and we are married.”

He faced her again slowly, seeming almost surprised by her words. Belle stood a few feet from him and felt his stare sear through her negligee as his eyes once again began to study her minutely. The intense scrutiny was unnerving. Belle wasn’t sure he even breathed. He stood so long, wordless and still, that she felt compelled at last to take a few more steps forward, smiling a little to mask her own raw nerves. 

“Leave something on me,” she chided lightly. “I’m getting chilly.”

His eyes snapped to hers at that, and she could see they were a dense brown in color, the cool, guarded expression contained in them nigh completely at odds with his heated stare of a moment ago.

“You’re not what I expected,” Mr. Gold offered at last, his voice having recovered from its earlier hoarseness. The tone was now cold, almost dismissive.

Belle felt the tell-tale warmth of a blush moving up her neck to her face and turned away toward the vanity table in the room, picking up a comb at random to mask her confusion. She had thought—but perhaps she had been mistaken? Perhaps his reaction was due to her not being--to his taste? How very mortifying, if so. She swallowed once and sought to clarify, asking, with a lightness she did not feel, “Am I better, or worse?”

There was an extended pause. “Just—more,” he said at last, almost as if the words were being forced from him. “More than I expected.” 

Belle felt a smile crease her face and turned back to him in pleased surprise. “I think if I study that for a bit, it might turn out to be a compliment.”

Mr. Gold’s mouth carried no answering smile, instead the lips were firmly compressed into a thin line, his expression devoid of any emotion Belle could identify. Oh, how he stared! She felt herself getting lost in his unrelenting gaze, so much so that she started a bit when next he spoke.

“May I speak very frankly, madame?”

“Please do.” Belle gestured to him to take a seat, felt her face redden again as he glanced down at the nearest chair to see some of her earlier cast-off articles of clothing. Hurriedly she moved to gather them up, her skirts just brushing his leg as she went by. She noticed as he moved to the chair that he favored his right leg; it was very slight, but Belle felt as if all her senses were somehow heightened when it came to this man. She deposited her things on the bed and moved to the chair opposite his, feeling her companion’s steady gaze strike sparks on her skin the entire way.

He waited until she was seated and had lifted her eyes to his face. The fading daylight was behind her, illuminating his features, and she studied them avidly, comparing them to what she had memorized from the sketch. There was the strong nose, which appeared to have been broken at least once in his life. The chin with the stubborn tilt to it. There were the lines marring his forehead, a few more now than in Emma’s drawing, likely correlating with the passage of time, though Belle had the idea they were rather more pronounced at present, just as the lips were thinner due to current firm compression, as if it took some effort of will to hold himself in check. His hair was just as portrayed, shoulder length, mainly brown with some gray strands weaving through. At the same time as she studied him, Mr. Gold continued to take her in, his eyes traveling everywhere with the same intense gaze of before. She could feel it gliding along her person, her legs, arms, hands—chest—hair—face—lips--

Belle broke the silence, feeling her skin start to tingle again under his regard, and instinctively sure that if she waited for Mr. Gold to speak they might sit thus ‘til Doomsday.

She cleared her throat softly and his eyes flitted back to hers before glancing quickly away. Belle noticed in surprise that a tinge of color was creeping up his neck. The sight restored to her a small measure of courage.

“You had wanted to discuss--?”

“Our arrangement, yes madame.” He had recovered his equanimity, it seemed. His voice was again perfectly calm, even indifferent. If she hadn’t observed that flush—

“You know my situation here,” he began brusquely, his eyes meeting hers steadily again. “This plantation is remote. I could not leave the jungle to obtain a wife, but I wanted a wife.”

“Yes, Baden told me,” Belle interrupted steadily. “You want companionship, and—children. So do I.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, swiftly sweeping over her again. “You’re very…”

“Bold?” Belle finished when he seemed at a loss.

His lips compressed further. “Never mind. Our contract, marriage by proxy, is not an uncommon way to get a wife in the jungle—only you were uncommon. How did my son find you?”

“He advertised in the newspapers. You’ll be flattered to know there were more than fifty applications.”

“And _you_ were chosen?”

Belle hesitated, sensing she was being tested in some way, though how or why she had no idea. “I had come to know Emma, and through her your son,” she responded steadily. “They were aware I had assisted my papa, before his death, as a sort of unofficial secretary in his business affairs, and so asked me to help sort through the applicants. During the process I became interested, and finally determined I would be a better match for you than any of the others.”

His mouth crooked at one end and Belle felt instinctively that here was the crux of the matter. “And why was that? What made you decide to travel so far from your home and marry a man you’d never met? You must have had--other options.”

Belle hesitated. She had tried before, with Baden and Emma, to put into words the feeling of certainty that had come over her while standing at the window of the Golds’ study that afternoon in New Orleans. She wasn’t sure she’d been entirely successful, but it had at least seemed to convince her friends that her decision to marry Baden’s father was no mere impulse, to be regretted in time. 

Belle leaned forward, looking full in the face the result of that certainty. “I don’t know if you believe in fate, Mr. Gold?”

His eyes were fixed unblinkingly on her. Belle had the distinct impression his entire being, mental and physical, had tensed. “Fate?” he echoed, a bit hollowly.

Undaunted, Belle went on. “You see, I had always had dreams, even as a young girl. Dreams of adventure, travel, new places, _different_ places. And dreams of purpose, above all, that what I did would make a difference somehow. I had thought by joining the suffragette league—where I met Emma—I might find that purpose, but still it eluded me. But then, when I began assisting Baden, and learned about you, your circumstances…” she trailed off, coloring slightly, aware what she was about to say would reveal mild impropriety on both her and Baden’s part, “and when Baden let me read your other letters, letters you had addressed to him over the last several years, about your vision of this place, the work already done and yet to do—well, I just _knew_ , somehow, that I was meant to come here. I’m not sure what else to call that feeling, besides fate?” 

She waited for a response of some kind, but he sat unmoving, the relentless stare unchanged even when she had mentioned reading letters addressed only to his son. Belle hesitated, uncertain how this last would be received. “Also, I’ve been lonely myself. Reading your letters, I could tell how lonely you were, with Baden gone. I felt that you needed me, that I--”

He cut her off by standing suddenly, as though stung, his mouth again clamped down into a thin line, stare hard. “I don’t need anyone,” he declared, tone scornful.

Belle met his look without flinching, her own voice mild as she retorted, “Not even for children?”

A sardonic gleam came into his eyes and his mouth twisted up at one corner. “As you know, dearie, the jungle did in fact provide me with a child. No— _assistance_ \--was necessary.”

Nettled, Belle couldn’t stop the swift reply. “Yes, but Baden didn’t stay here in the end, did he? When it came time to have his own family, he fled this place. Perhaps if you’d provided him with a mother growing up, he might have decided differently.”

The change to his face was swift and unmistakable—pain, bitterness, loss was plain to be seen, flashing one after the other before being hidden behind the same distant mask he had worn almost the entirety of their encounter. He opened his mouth, to say what, Belle would never know, for she forestalled him.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, immediately regretful, standing and moving toward Mr. Gold as cautiously as she imagined one would toward any cornered animal. “I don’t know why I said that, it was cruel. I know—Baden told me—how good a father you were to him, how kind and caring, and of course you didn’t have to take him in at all. That was another reason I decided to come here. You had already proven to be a good father once. Baden does you great credit,” she finished softly. She started to stretch a hand toward him, let it fall by some instinct. His eyes, his whole face, displayed a forbidding aspect, cold and remote as the far side of the moon. 

They remained staring at each other for unknown moments more until Belle could withstand the intensity of that look no longer. She moved away a few paces, taking up position behind her chair and leaning on it heavily, feeling as though she had run down a flight of steps, or galloped quickly across a meadow. “I am sorry,” she said again, quietly. “We haven’t made a very good beginning, have we?”

He was silent so long she wasn’t sure he would answer her at all, until a terse “No,” fell harshly on her ears. Again he was silent, long enough that Belle feared the single syllable would be his only response to her soul baring. “But,” he went on at last, fatigue creeping into his voice, “I suspect neither of us is at our best right now. I suggest we resume this—discussion--in an hour, at dinner. You’ll be able to change,” this with a glance again at her dishabille, a look which caused an answering tremor that Belle was unable to entirely repress, and which she was nearly certain he noted, “and so will I. I’ll send Pots to you for any assistance you might require.”

He turned without another word or glance, closing the door behind him with a decided snap. Belle slumped against the chair in front of her, quite unable to hold herself upright one moment longer.

***

Outside the room in which the new Mrs. Gold had been so recently installed, Dove and Pots stood in the shadows. It was their custom to come together thus at this time of day, the last quiet moments before dinner was served, at which time Potts would return to supervise her staff in the kitchens and Dove the laying out of the meal. They would come together again at night, of course, but both enjoyed the current hour’s usual respite in their daily duties. 

Not that today had been an ordinary day, by any means. They had just been discussing the new mistress of the establishment, both inclined so far to a favorable view of the lady. Their soft conversation was interrupted by raised voices in Mrs. Gold’s room. They listened briefly.

“She will not be cowed by him. That is good,” Pots murmured.

“He is not a difficult man,” Dove protested, just as softly.

“But he has been alone—for far too long,” Pots replied calmly. Dove could not deny this. “And used to having his own way, absolutely—which will no longer be the case. If this is to work, better for him to know this at once.”

Moments later, the pair observed Mr. Gold’s abrupt sounding departure. They watched as he crossed the courtyard towards the kitchen area.

“His limp is pronounced today,” Pots observed.

“On horseback too long lately,” Dove agreed. “Confirming the news of the drums. And he’s sending me, the day after tomorrow.”

Pots turned to face him. “Is it—what they are saying?”

Dove didn’t speak, simply looked at her. It was answer enough.

Pots sighed. “We have faced it before,” she said resignedly.

“And worse,” Dove reminded her.

The reminder was not needed. Pots stood on tip toe, as Dove leaned down. They were disturbed mere moments later as a bell sounding from the kitchen was heard clanging through the estate. The lovers smiled at each other, regretful but resigned, and parted, Pots to attend to the new wife, Dove to the new husband.


	5. Chapter Four

Belle supposed it was not particularly surprising how difficult it was proving to sustain dinner conversation. Especially when one of the parties conversing seemed committed to giving only one-syllable responses.

Even getting that much out of Mr. Gold had taken inordinate exertion on her part. When Belle had first entered the room he had seemed stunned speechless, regarding her mutely while his eyes traveled over her white clad form almost-- _avidly_. Belle, for her part, had returned the intense scrutiny and had been very well pleased with what she saw: a man in his forties, lean, freshly bathed and shaved, with hair falling almost to his shoulders and curling slightly with dampness at the ends that rested just above his shoulders. The determination and power she had sensed in him at their first meeting was still the most striking aspect of the man, and after subjecting her person to a comprehensive study he had retreated behind a coolly distant manner, returning her soft “Good evening,” with only a slight inclination of the head. 

He had certainly not grown more verbose as the evening progressed.

Belle sighed inwardly, trying to conceal her frustration. At this point, she wasn’t sure what to make of Mr. Gold’s— _her husband’s_ , she corrected herself—demeanor. Was he simply unused to attempting the social graces, or—did he find her not worth any effort at the social niceties at all? 

She could almost have believed the latter. They had sat down to dinner nearly half an hour ago, Belle having been escorted by Pots to the dining room, which was rather an open air chamber leading directly off the courtyard, enclosed on three sides by the same combination of slats and latticework that characterized the rest of the estate. Belle was fascinated by how the jungle plants and, in some cases, wildlife had been incorporated into the décor of the rooms. The bountiful blooms lent fragrance to the enclosures, the riotous color made a feast for the vision, and the sounds of the animals—mostly but not exclusively birds—fell surprisingly pleasantly on the ears. 

Mr. Gold’s commentary on this subject however, when she raised it at dinner, had been sadly lacking. He had continued in the same monosyllabic vein ever since—almost as if he wished to be thought indifferent.

But he was attentive. Even when her own eyes were busy taking in the various aspects of the room, or studying her food, or inwardly focused while preparing to launch another conversational gambit, Belle was conscious of his gaze upon her. That curious heightened awareness of him that she’d been conscious of since their first meeting a mere few hours ago had continued, and some instinct assured her it was a mutual awareness. She glanced across the dining table—large enough to seat six guests on either side, with herself and Mr. Gold placed at opposite ends, as now—and again encountered the full force of his steady, inscrutable regard. Whatever lay behind that look, Belle was growing certain it was _not_ indifference.

Belle cast about for something, _anything_ , to say, to break the silence that had stretched for much of the last course. 

“That last dish was quite good. Was it some kind of native fowl?”

“It was lizard,” came the offhand reply.

“Oh,” she responded faintly. Another stretch of absolute quiet followed, before Belle spoke again. “It’s not as warm as I’d feared it might be. Very temperate weather, in fact.”

“This is winter.” It almost sounded like a rebuke.

Belle took a deep breath, valiantly resolved to carry on. “Oh yes, we are rather far south of the equator here, aren’t we?” He seemed to take the question as rhetorical, for it elicited no reply by word or look. A bit nettled, Belle continued, “How far south?”

An eyebrow was raised at the other end of the table. “Does it matter?” Mr. Gold wryly inquired in return.

Belle sighed again, this time openly. “I suppose not,” she answered, disheartened and tired enough not to bother hiding it any longer. She had just resigned herself to the likelihood of spending the rest of the evening—perhaps the rest of her married life?--in complete silence, when Mr. Gold surprised her yet again.

“I’m afraid I must…apologize,” he began, a bit stiltedly. Belle looked up immediately he had begun to speak to find his eyes fastened to her face. His countenance remained a mask of stillness, but his voice was tinged with regret. “I—haven’t been used to company. Not since—well, not for years. I was never the most sociable of men to begin with…taciturn might be the best descriptor. But the solitude of my circumstances has likely contributed to a natural bent—Jefferson, the Commissioner, you met him on the boat here, I believe,” he paused, continuing after Belle had nodded assent, “he’s always said too much solitude can drive a person ‘bonkers.’ I’m not sure if—"

Belle was so intently focused on this speech—the longest of the dinner so far, by either party—that she quite jumped in her seat when a loud squawk sounded from one of the colorful parrots whose enclosure ran part of the way around the perimeter of the courtyard.

“Bonkers!” the bird squawked, quite coherently. “Entirely bonkers! All the best people are, you know! All the best people are!”

Belle turned a mystified face to Mr. Gold. “Did your parrot just quote--Alice In Wonderland?” she asked slowly, feeling an intense kinship in that moment to the eponymous character of the novel in question.

“Indeed,” Mr. Gold confirmed, a slight smile refusing to be banished from the corners of his mouth. “Again, Jefferson. He teaches the bird a few lines from the book every time he visits. You’ll find the Commissioner has a particular affinity for the works of Lewis Carroll.”

“I’m an admirer of them myself,” Belle replied hesitantly. “You--had mentioned, in your letters,” she ventured cautiously, half afraid of him retreating back behind that wall of unsociability if she went too quickly, “the importance of your library in staving off the solitude. I caught a glimpse of it, earlier. I love books, myself. Probably can trace my longing for adventure to the habit of reading,” she confessed.

It seemed he was not finished in surprising her. “’We may sit in our library, and yet be in all quarters of the earth,’” Gold quoted softly.

Belle’s face brightened with pleasure. “Sir John Lubbock!” she acknowledged happily. 

Gold’s cheeks became tinged with pink and a shy smile made him seem suddenly much younger, less care worn. “That volume came through with one of the more recent shipments,” he said. “I have a standing order for new books to be shipped twice a year. Perhaps later—”

He was interrupted by Dove’s entry. The large man stopped, sent an apologetic glance to Mr. Gold and gave a slight cough. “Pardon me, madam, sir. Your coffee is ready in the music room, Mrs. Gold.”

“Thank you, Dove,” Mr. Gold said, rising and waving the larger man back, going himself to assist Belle to her feet. He offered his hand which she accepted with a shy smile of her own, unable to ignore the tremor the light touch of his firm, calloused palm sent through her. She released him as soon as she was steady, knowing herself to be flushing and torn between embarrassment and wonder that the mere touch of this man’s hand could provoke such a carnal response in her. It was certainly unlike anything she had experienced with Gaston.

Mr. Gold motioned her to precede him and she followed Dove into the adjoining room. It was spacious, comfortably furnished with several chairs, a chaise lounge and a half sofa, all distributed around a grand piano which occupied pride of place.

Belle couldn’t help the sound of pleasure that escaped her lips as she moved towards the instrument, running her hands lightly along the keys. “What a beautiful piano!” she exclaimed.

“It too was brought up by river.”

“For me?” she asked, having seated herself impulsively and warming up with a few chords. 

“No, for anyone who could play it. I wanted someone who could.” 

Belle glanced up at the dismissive response, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. The mask—she was more convinced than ever that it was exactly that—of indifference was back in place. She bit back another sigh, but acknowledged to herself the relief mingled with her frustration. It was extraordinary, really, this marriage of theirs, and overwhelming at times. But perhaps where she would impetuously charge forward, this man--her husband--was more comfortable with a sedate progress, or a temporary retreat? She shrugged inwardly. Only time could show where this strange dance of theirs would lead. Belle only hoped it would not be a waltz of one step forward and two back.

“Any requests?” she asked archly.

He shook his head, seating himself some feet away on the temptingly overstuffed chaise. “Whatever you will,” he answered in a subdued tone. His eyes had returned to her face though, and she could almost persuade herself she saw regret for his momentary withdrawal. Well. Two steps forward and one back, then. Belle supposed she could tolerate that.

She ran her hands once more over the ivory keys, then began the opening bars of a favorite Beethoven piece, the moonlight beginning to shine into the center of the courtyard providing the perfect atmospheric accompaniment.

Belle played the song through, losing herself in the music. At the end she looked up, locking eyes again with the dark gaze across the room which she sensed had not wavered for a moment during her recital. Neither spoke for the space of a heartbeat.

“That was lovely,” Gold spoke quietly into the stillness.

Belle felt her heart first stutter, then regain speed precipitately. “Thank you,” she whispered the reply, divided between the equally strong desires in that moment to hide away or to stand and go to—her husband.

From some corridor nearby a clock started chiming. Their eyes continued to hold through the eighth and final chime, then Mr. Gold turned away.

“It’s—” he paused to clear his throat of a sudden hoarseness, then spoke again. “It’s getting late, at least by the standards here. You’ll find we do things early in the jungle--we dine early, we retire early.”

Belle swallowed to relieve her own mouth of dryness. “And--what time is bedtime?” she finally got out.

She saw his mouth twist wryly before smoothing to become part of the usual, expressionless façade. “Bedtime--for _you_ \--is whenever you wish it, madam.”

“Please,” Belle protested, rising from her seat the piano to move toward the chaise beside him. He had stood when she had, and now remained looking down at her, even after she gestured for him to be seated at her side.

“Please.” Belle repeated firmly, gesturing again to the cushion on the chaise beside her. He seemed to hesitate, then with an almost imperceptible gesture of his hand, almost to cast something aside, sat.

“My name is Belle,” she said mildly, meeting eyes that were once more guarded. “As you know,” she added, gently reproaching.

His eyes and mouth softened reluctantly. “Yes, I do know that.”

Belle sat silent, allowing a small, expectant smile to communicate what was now required. He understood after a minuscule pause, his own mouth quirking at the corner. “And I am Christopher, as you know.”

Belle inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement. “I just thought that, as we are married, first names could be used between us.”

“Quite right,” he agreed, still a trifle distantly for her taste. She sat staring at him, and he added after the barest hesitation, “Belle.”

“Thank you—Christopher.”

He had watched her mouth shape his name, a spark of something entering his eyes as he did so which sent another tremor through Belle. She opened her mouth again, to say what she wasn’t quite sure, when he forestalled her by both word and raised hand.

“Before you say anything more, there is something you should know. Many things, in fact, but there is a particular situation that has recently arisen that may render this situation in which we find ourselves—in short, this marriage—unpalatable to you.”

Belle found she had no words for that statement. Fortunately, he seemed to expect no answer, merely searched her face to ensure he had her attention, then proceeded.

“To begin, could you tell me--what did Baden and Emma tell you about what occurred here, ten years ago? Before they moved to New Orleans, I mean?”

Belle was mystified. “They never spoke of it much,” she began slowly. She had no idea what she might have expected, but it certainly wasn’t that query. Belle cast back in her mind, trying to recall what the younger Golds had told her about the time before they relocated to New Orleans as a newly married couple. “I know there was some kind of disaster in this land, and that Emma’s parents both died during the event, but other than that…” she trailed off, looking back at Gold to signal that this was the extent of her knowledge.

His face betrayed a flash of surprise, quickly hidden, which puzzled Belle exceedingly, but before she could pursue it he asked abruptly, “They never mentioned something called _marabunta_?”

“Mara—I’m sorry, what?”

“ _Marabunta_.”

She noted his eyes glance down to her lips as they silently mouthed the unfamiliar word, then return hastily to her face. The sight gave her a giddy feeling deep down, but she pushed it aside as she took in the furrows in his brow and worried lines around the eyes. Whatever he was trying to tell her, it was important, and any distraction by her—even unintentionally--was not likely to be helpful. She straightened in the chair, stating clearly, “I’ve never heard of that— _marabunta_?—before. What is it?”

Gold’s face took on a grim, forbidding aspect. “Rather they, instead of it. _Marabunta_ refers to a swarm of aggressively predatory ants. They swarm for reasons unknown, to a timetable unknowable to any but themselves.”

Belle felt more and more that she had stepped through the looking glass. “Ants?” she echoed faintly.

Gold nodded firmly. “I’ll admit, I was skeptical myself at first. I’d never seen them, never heard of them before the first swarm I witnessed--which was ten years ago. The dwarfs had the first warning. Various villages exist in the boundaries and tributaries between the different estates here, and the dwarfs have a deep connection to the land. They communicate regularly by drums, and after living here some time the drum song can be easily deciphered. A week before the swarm, there came a message I’d never heard before, carrying the warning of a _marabunta_ hive that was maturing. By the time it swarmed near this plantation, it was two miles wide and twenty miles long, and left nothing alive in its wake.”

Belle tried to take in all he was saying, but it was so fantastical…“So you’re saying this _marabunta_ …this swarm of ants…that they ate…”

“Everything they encountered,” he finished heavily. “Plants, animals…people. Yes.”

A wave of horror washed over her, a distant echo of which was to be seen in Gold’s dark eyes. “And Emma’s parents?” she asked hesitantly, wondering as she did so if she truly wished a reply. “Were they—?”

The quick reassurance of the sharp negative shake of Gold’s head was tempered by his next words. “No, they—were caught in the subsequent fire and flooding of the surrounding area.” He paused, his breathing, deep and deliberate, and hers, coming sharper, were the only sounds for a time. “That’s…how they were brought under control, in the end. By intentional firing and flooding of the area. Most of this estate, parts of the Mission, the Nolan’s camp, some of the dwarf villages…all were sacrificed to stop the swarm.”

“How terrible,” Belle breathed. “How was Emma spared?”

Gold seemed to hesitate a moment. “She was not at her parents’ camp that night,” he answered briefly.

Belle looked with new eyes at the room around her. “You said there was fire, and flooding?” Gold nodded. “So this,” she waved a hand around to encompass the room and beyond, “all this was rebuilt in the last ten years?”

Gold grunted an affirmative, his face taking on a tired aspect. “Indeed it was. I originally pulled this plantation out of the river thirty years ago, and ten years ago I had to do it again. The land is protected by a series of dams,” he went on to explain, “which keep the plantation and lands around it from flooding completely, and gives us control over the watering of the crop. It was decided that the Mission, which occupies somewhat higher elevation, would start a deliberate fire of the surrounding areas in an attempt to destroy the swarm. It was my responsibility to destroy the dams so the flooding could sweep away all the _marabunta_ swarm that the Mission’s fire failed to destroy—and to help put out the fire, of course.

After the swarm had been annihilated, the house was a wreck,” he continued. “Little of anything could be salvaged. It took time to repair the dams and drain the area. It was nearly a year before the place began to be even habitable again.”

“Is that why Baden and Emma left this place, and went to New Orleans? Because it had been almost completely destroyed?”

Again Gold seemed to hesitate, then nodded. “There was no guarantee then, despite what you see now, that I would be able to recover even half of what I’d lost. This was no place for a young fam—a young couple, just starting out. It was best that they left. And Baden benefited enormously from the legal training he received in New Orleans. In many ways that life suits him much more than this ever did. It would have been selfish to keep them here,” his voice had trailed off during the last statement, sounding both certain and wistful.

Belle reflected on how isolated he must have felt, his home a wreck, his plantation a ruin, abandoned by his son and daughter-in-law—perhaps at his own insistence, and no doubt for the best, but even so… She leaned forward on impulse and took one of his lean, long fingered hands in both her own.

“I think you were very selfless, Christopher,” she confided earnestly, looking him full in the face. “And building this place, having the courage and determination to accomplish that, not just once, but twice…it’s _wonderful_.”

Gold stared at her as if he didn’t quite believe she wasn’t a mirage, his gaze searching her eyes before dipping down to rest briefly again on her lips and finally settle on their hands. Their entwined hands, Belle realized, for at some point while she was speaking he had gently threaded his fingers through her own. Belle felt her breath catch at the intimacy of the gesture.

“Don’t go imagining me to be a hero, dearie,” he said finally, a note of what might have been warning sounding in the soft brogue.

“Belle,” she corrected after a moment, distracted by his thumb beginning to run, a bit hesitantly and ever so gently, along the inside of her palm.

“Belle,” he echoed, and she was surprised he was close enough that she felt the exhalation of his breath on her cheek. She raised her head, both of them pulling back in simultaneous surprise as their noses bumped. They continue to regard each other for a timeless moment, then Gold turned his head away, a wry smile twisting his lips while his hand continued to grasp hers. 

“I didn’t intend for my recitation to give you an inflated opinion of my character,” he observed finally. “You may be assured I have my share of faults.”

“Most men do,” Belle responded dryly.

He looked at her swiftly, expression searching, though for what she couldn’t guess. “No doubt,” he eventually acknowledged, then took a deep breath and seemed to prepare himself. “Nor did I tell you about the _marabunta_ to frighten you. I brought up the subject simply because you must know. Because they may be preparing to swarm again.” 

Belle couldn’t control her gasp of sudden fright, her mind instantly providing her horrible images of ants crawling over every surface around her, devouring animals whole, marching up her own legs and—No. She would not even _imagine_ that. Gold remained silent while she composed herself, the increased pressure of his hand in hers solid and comforting. She took a few deep breaths and was pleased that when she at last felt able to venture a question, her voice was calm to her ears.

“When?”

Gold blew out a breath in frustration, his free hand running through his hair in an agitated gesture. “I don’t know. The drums started again three nights ago, and I left to travel to one of the nearer dwarf villages yesterday. I was returning from there this afternoon when Dove told me you had arrived. It’s the only excuse I have to offer for my irritability, earlier.” 

His eyes returned to hers, apology in the dark depths. Belle smiled at him and shook her head. “It’s more than a sufficient excuse, Christopher,” she assured him firmly, noting with a feeling close to joy how his entire face seemed brighter when she used his name. “It seems I’ve arrived at precisely the worst time,” she went on, musing aloud. “I suppose the first thing to be done is to try and determine, as much as we can, whether they really will swarm again—and when. You mentioned the dwarfs having more knowledge of the _marabunta’s_ swarm patterns—will you be returning to them to find more information?”

The curious searching look had come back into his face, but he answered readily. “Yes—Dove at least had planned to start out, the day after tomorrow, for a meeting with the dwarves from the further villages. I had thought to remain here—I was hoping to catch Jefferson when the boat landed—but as I’ve missed him, I’ll likely go with Dove to see what can be determined.”

Belle nodded. “You’ll have to show me the house and grounds tomorrow, as much as you can, anyway. And let me know what you want done to prepare, in case they are in fact coming. I’ll of course help in any way I can.”

Gold stared at her, his mouth slightly open, puzzlement writ large on his face and mixed with disbelief. “What?” Belle asked softly, as his stare continued.

Gold shook his head slightly as though trying to clear it. “I don’t think you understand, Belle,” he started, gently, almost as though speaking to a slow-witted person. “If the _marabunta_ truly are swarming, you can’t stay. You can’t stay here—it wouldn’t be safe.”

It was Belle’s turn to regard him in shocked surprise. “Of course I would stay here!” she answered firmly. “You would be staying, wouldn’t you?”

He shook his head impatiently. “I must stay. This is my home, it’s all I have. I took it from the jungle when I first came here, and I’ve taken it again since. I’ll never give it up. But you—” he stopped abruptly, then tightened his grip on their still clasped hands. “You must understand--you could be killed, Belle,” he stated urgently.

“I do understand that,” she retorted with spirit, withdrawing her hand abruptly. “I’m not a half-wit. But they’ve swarmed before, and _you_ survived. Baden, Emma, Dove and Pots--all of them survived—”

“But Emma’s parents died,” he interrupted harshly, his brogue thicker than she had heard it before. “As did two of the sisters from the Mission. Nearly a score of dwarves died too—the ones that didn’t leave in time.” He paused and again that look returned, as if he found her something quite unaccountable. His voice was softer as he added, “Of course I don’t believe you to be a fool. But you must be afraid?” 

“I didn’t say I wasn’t afraid,” she remonstrated gently. “I’m terrified, if you want to know. But if this place is to be my home now,” she sought his hand again with her own, holding it lightly. “I can’t abandon it at the first sign of trouble.”

He sighed impatiently. “I don’t doubt your courage. I admire it, in fact—not one woman in a hundred would have accepted what I’ve just told you with half so much fortitude. But while bravery is an admirable—perhaps even necessary, trait in the jungle-- stubbornness certainly is _not_.”

Belle lifted her chin defiantly. “Only acceptable in a man, is it?”

Gold’s lips thinned as they regarded each other steadily for long moments. It was he who first looked away. “I hope we’re not going to quarrel,” Belle spoke into the subsequent silence. “I simply think it’s premature to discuss my leaving, as the threat has yet to be decisively confirmed. Should it be so, I will of course take into consideration all my husband’s wishes.” 

He glanced sideways at that, a corner of his mouth quirking. “Quite a diplomatic answer, Mrs. Gold.”

Belle permitted herself a small, somewhat rueful smile in return. “My first marriage taught me the value of diplomacy, Mr. Gold.”

Their hands had continued to meet throughout the exchange, thus Belle felt as well as saw the tension that suddenly filled Gold’s frame. 

“Your—first marriage?” he repeated blankly.

Belle looked back at him, puzzled as to the sudden shift in his demeanor. “Yes,” she answered, faint tingles of trepidation starting to flow through her being. “My marriage to Gaston DuLac. My first husband.”

Gold withdrew his hand from hers abruptly, rising and moving to a whiskey decanter on a nearby table. His back was to her as he poured a measure into a glass, swallowed it, then poured another. His voice, when at last he spoke, was toneless. 

“How long were you married?”

Belle swallowed against a tightening throat, bewilderment and alarm building within her. He seemed to have totally withdrawn from her again. “Almost four years,” she said at last, unable to stop the questioning lilt to the last word.

Silence succeeded her answer, then, in the same toneless voice, “I wasn’t aware you’d been married before.”

Belle stared at his back, utterly bewildered. “But—but Baden _knew_. I never attempted to conceal it from him. Why would I? I met Emma shortly after completing my first year of mourning—that was the reason I was at such a loose end, trying to re-establish myself somehow. They both knew I was a widow. Why wouldn’t they have told you? I don’t understand…”

She trailed off, confusion morphing increasingly to concern as still he would not face her. She was not much reassured when he turned the next moment, with a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes, the mask of cool indifference once more in place. “I’ve no doubt you were as open as it was possible to be. Nor do I believe there was any intentional concealment on Baden’s part. Some of the first letters which described you arrived during our rainy season, and portions were rendered nigh illegible—doubtless this information was recorded there.” He nodded, almost as if to convince himself as much as her of the likelihood of what he was saying. “In any case, I believe I’ve kept you late enough for your first evening here, and given you more than enough to think on. Forgive me, but as I explained, the nature of the possible threat demanded you be informed at once. I can send for Pots to show you back to your room—”

It was as firm a dismissal as any Belle had ever received, and though her first instinct was to protest, she privately admitted that it would likely be for the best for her to retire to her room. Now on her feet, she could feel an almost overwhelming exhaustion threatening to overtake her. “I believe I can find my way without Pots,” she said instead, moving toward the doorway. She paused, half turning back to inquire, “Will I see you in the morning?”

He nodded. “I can show you the house and grounds, if you wish,” came the distant reply.

She stood a moment longer, entirely baffled at his abrupt mood shift. “Good night, Christopher,” she offered at last, hoping to recapture the easier atmosphere of moments ago, but was not truly surprised when a brief “Good night,” was his only reply. 

 

***

Gold watched the woman—his wife— _Belle_ \--as she made her way across the courtyard. She paused at the doorway to her room opposite, then turned back to meet his eyes briefly before giving a slight nod and passing through the door.

Gold closed his eyes, sagging slightly against the table on which the whiskey decanter rested, the most damnable blend of exhaustion and exhilaration coursing through his veins, dulling his mind to anything not directly connected to her. This morning he would have scoffed in anyone had suggested that a possible _marabunta_ threat would not be at the forefront of his mind for the foreseeable future, and yet…

It was the most unaccountable feeling, this—awareness. Awareness of her, of Belle. Even now, when she was out of his sight, he was conscious of it. A difference in the air, akin to the electric charge that could be felt before the powerful storms of the wet season. It was quite a heady sensation.

It was quite a heady situation. This beautiful, accomplished, intelligent, engaging, courageous creature was-- _his_. His wife. 

It was absurd.

Gold liked to think of himself as a realistic man in many ways, and as such he had been under no illusions of the type and quality of woman his situation would be likely to entice into marriage. He had been conscious of a feeling of foreboding since receiving Baden’s letters about Belle DuLac, this prospective bridal candidate who had met all Gold’s criteria and then some. He had felt that something, somewhere, some catch, had been missed. He simply wasn’t that fortunate, to acquire a seemingly perfect woman right out of the grab bag, as it were. Now, it would seem, that feeling of foreboding was explained.

He didn’t hold Baden responsible at all. It was true, what he had told Belle, that the first packet of Baden’s letters regarding his prospective proxy bride had been damaged by the rains. Gold could only assume that this newly revealed aspect of her life—her prior marriage—had in fact been disclosed before, in one of those letters. Baden and Emma certainly would have had no reason to hide Belle’s widowed state. And Gold was confident that neither would have had any reason to suspect why Belle’s prior marriage was particularly—perhaps peculiarly—important to him. He wasn’t even certain if either of the young people had ever heard of Milah Gold, and even if they had, the odds of them deducing the exact state of his marital relations with his first wife were exceedingly long.

Gold sighed heavily, picked up the whiskey and downed the second glass in one large swig. It burned through his throat as the memory of Milah burned through his brain. He could have told Belle about Milah this evening, he mused. The revelation about her own prior marriage had perhaps presented the perfect opportunity. But Gold just hadn’t been prepared to dredge up the whole sordid mess that had been his first union. It was probably cowardly, but Gold had not even decided if he would disclose to his new bride that he had been married before—married in the eyes of the law, at least. He had vacillated over whether such a disclosure, with all the attendant embarrassment, would be truly necessary, convincing himself that with the virginal spinster he had assumed would fall to his lot, such disclosure likely wouldn’t have been needful at all. 

But in these circumstances…

Gold briefly debated the wisdom of a third whiskey, ultimately deciding against it. Morning would inevitably come, and he rather thought it would behoove him to have as many of his wits about him as possible. Even then, Gold was conscious of the unshakeable certainty that when it came to dealing with both Belle and _marabunta_ , he would be hopelessly outmatched on the morrow.


	6. Chapter Five

Belle supposed it was no surprise that she woke the next morning with a headache.

She had lain awake until the small hours, by turns anxious, indignant and bewildered regarding the finale of her exchange with Gold—with _Christopher_ \--the night before. His change in demeanor had been so abrupt, so very altered from mere moments previous…

Try as she might, Belle was unable to discover the answer to the riddle of Gold’s behavior. He did not strike her as temperamentally a changeable man—indeed, everything she had known about him, until last night, had pointed instead to a single-minded tenacity of purpose. Once his mind was made up, Belle had the distinct impression no force on earth would deter him from his chosen course. 

Stubborn was undoubtedly the word.

Nor was Belle able to understand the other riddle that vexed her--just _why_ she had responded so intensely to this man. Objectively, compared to her late husband, Gold’s physical attributes were modest at best. But in four years of marriage Gaston had never stirred in her what Christopher had inspired in less than a day. 

No, the fact of her response could not be denied, any more than the truth that, up until the confusing turn of their last conversation, Belle would have been quite content to start fulfilling her marital obligations that very evening. She blushed slightly in remembrance of her forward behavior yesterday, from their first meeting when she had greeted him in her negligee to her less than innocent inquiry about bedtime. She had definitely been-- _affected_. 

As had Christopher. Belle was certain of it. 

At least, she _had_ been certain, until…

Belle turned onto her back in the beautiful bed, blue eyes open and staring unseeing up into the canopy, an identical position to how she had spent much of the night before. It was while lying like this that she had dismissed utterly any suspicion of the younger Golds having intentionally withheld her widowed status from Gold senior. She had parsed through every memory of every interaction with Baden and Emma, and in none could she recall even a hint that her first marriage would represent any impediment to a union with Mr. Christopher Gold.

Nor did Belle truly feel that Gold’s irritation was directed towards the younger couple. He had himself voiced a likely explanation for his lack of knowledge about his new bride, and with that had absolved the younger Golds fully of any blame in the—misunderstanding.

Which still left the central question unanswered: why would it matter so very much in the first place, that Belle was a widow? 

For matter it did. That much had been _quite_ clear.

Belle felt her head begin to throb again, the rhythm an echo of the drum beats that had accompanied her sleep last night. _Driven_ her to sleep was perhaps more accurate, as Belle had been desperate to escape even the sound of those drums, and the reminder of what else had been spoken of last night.

Belle smiled ruefully. It was rather a pitiful situation, she supposed—the new bride waking from slumber to meditate over whether she was to prove a disappointment to her husband, or fodder for an army of marauding ants—or perhaps both...

A giddy spurt of laughter forced its way between her lips and Belle turned onto her stomach, hoping to muffle the sound before it devolved into the hysteria she was beginning to fear couldn’t be far off.

“Madam?” a voice sounded from the foot of the bed, questioning in tone and startling the bed’s occupant back to reason.

Belle sat up immediately, surprise quickly becoming pleasure as she took in Pots, standing with a breakfast tray in hand, the twin aromas of coffee and chocolate rising in the steam from two small pots that flanked an impressively laden plate of food.

“Good morning, Pots,” Belle greeted the other woman rather shyly, conscious of being discovered alone in bed this morning. Belle didn’t think that Pots would gossip about the implied state of affairs between master and mistress that her single occupancy of the bed indicated—the older, shorter woman gave an immediate impression of discretion, and had a stately kind of calm about her that went well with her striking type of beauty.

Still, in a society as enclosed as this one, talk of the new mistress was bound to be a temptation to anybody.

“Good morning, madam,” Pots returned the salutation with a smile of her own, warm and welcoming, further dispelling Belle’s doubts. “I’ve brought you breakfast this morning, as per Mr. Gold’s directions. He wasn’t sure what time you would wish to rise today.”

Belle felt herself color at the mention of her husband, then all thought was wiped from her mind as she took in the offering on the tray before her. Not only was there a small pot of chocolate and a larger one of coffee, but—oh, _wonderful!_ —on the plate was eggs, scrambled within an inch of their lives, and two pieces of the most delicious appearing toast.

Pots noted her fascination and immediately set to putting the tray astride Belle’s lap. The first sips of chocolate were heavenly, the first bites of egg and toast perfection. Belle looked up in gratitude at the other woman. “Thank you,” she said feelingly. “It really is a comfort to have one’s ordinary fare for breakfast.”

Pots seemed to be holding back a smile, then answered mildly, “Mr. Gold did mention that I should attempt to refrain from serving lizard too often at dinner, madam.”

Belle nearly choked on her next bite, belatedly remembering that this woman had cooked dinner the night before and, presumably, this breakfast. A sudden suspicion swept through her mind as she eyed the eggs—did lizards lay eggs? Belle firmly closed the door on that train of thought. Whether they did or not, her current meal was excellent, as dinner had been. 

“Please, don’t alter the menus on my account,” she rushed to say. “Everything was delicious last night—including the lizard. It just surprised me, which was probably silly on my part.”

“We do have many varieties of fowl on Mr. Gold’s lands, madam. Including the birds who laid these eggs today,” Pots observed, still with that nearly hidden smile.

Belle briefly wondered if the other woman was a mind reader. “Well, this too is very good,” she stated firmly. “Do you do all the cooking here?”

“Yes,” Pots answered simply. “I’ve always been skilled in preparing food, so Mr. Gold gave me position of his cook.”

A thought struck Belle and she noted between bites, “Is the name Pots a nickname, then? Because you have charge of the kitchen?”

A sudden, closed expression came over Pots face. “Not a nickname. Mr. Gold recommended I take it as my name when I first came here.” 

There was something in her manner that deterred Belle from further questions, and indeed she felt rather apologetic for her inquisitiveness. “Well, thank you again for the breakfast, Pots. I do appreciate it—very much.” 

Pots nodded acknowledgment. “May I assist you in laying out your clothing for the day, madam?” 

“Oh, you needn’t do that. I expect you have other duties to see to—” Belle protested, only to be gently interrupted.

“It is no trouble at all, madam. Mr. Gold was called down to the pier half an hour ago; something to do with the Commissioner and Captain Jones. Dove is going to set out soon to join him, and thought you might wish to go too?”

Belle absorbed the information and nodded quickly, cramming a few last bites into her mouth and sipping another cup of the strong coffee as quickly as the temperature would allow. “I certainly would like to go with Dove,” she agreed, as Pots laid out what Belle had come to think of in her mind as her jungle kit—linen shirt, serviceable skirt and ankle boots. “Please let him know I’ll only be a few minutes.” 

Pots nodded once and, again smiling calmly, left the room.

Belle finished the food, leaving the tray at the foot of the bed and reflecting how odd it was that something so prosaic as eggs, toast and coffee could set one to rights even in the most outlandish circumstances. Her headache was now only a dim memory, her predominate emotions currently excitement and the optimism achievable only by the well-gruntled. It occurred to her that the only way to find out what exactly her husband had been thinking last night was, of course, to speak with him, and the only was to deal with the possible _marabunta_ crisis was to find out more information—neither of which could be accomplished by lying in bed until all hours.

She pulled on her clothes, brushed and swept back her hair and tied on a rather fetching, broad brimmed hat, which she suspected would save her constitution as much as her complexion. She had been truthful last night when voicing that the temperature had not caused her the discomfort she had feared, but then again she had yet to spend a full day out walking in the elements.

Belle emerged from her rooms to find Dove waiting for her, the large man appearing entirely undisturbed by any of the changes the last few days had wrought. Belle briefly wondered what it would take to discompose Dove, if the sudden arrival of a new mistress and a possible _marabunta_ threat couldn’t do it, then smiled engagingly at him and murmured a greeting.

Dove nodded and smiled in return, indicating with a hand towards the main entrance across the courtyard. “I would recommend we take the carriage back to the pier, Mrs. Gold,” he said by way of greeting. “The walk is not far, but you will still be getting used to our climate here.”

Belle acquiesced to the proposal gratefully. They went through the main entrance to where the carriage had already been pulled up the drive, and Belle was handed in by Dove who climbed up and took the reins into his capable hands, placidity rolling off him in calm, gentle waves.

Belle was conscious of a curiosity that would not be suppressed about the large man—indeed, about all the inhabitants of the Gold house. Hoping to fare better with Dove than she had with Pots, she inquired first, “Are you from one of the villages around Mr. Gold’s lands, Dove?”

Dove turned his head to look at her between guiding the horses, who likely knew the way to the pier well. “No, madam. I am from a village far to the south of here. How far, I do not know. My height is not such an aberration there, though I am still tall even among my own people.”

Belle was interested. “I didn’t realize there was such a variety among—the dwarfs, I believe is the name?” 

“That is one name for us, yes. In our own language, the name for our people is unpronounceable to you.”

“I see,” Belle answered. “But your language can be learned, can it not? I heard—that is, I believe I heard Mr. Gold speak some of it, when he returned to the estate last night.”

Dove nodded slightly. “Mr. Gold is proficient in the tongue, though it has taken many years to become so.”

Belle thought suddenly of Pots, the woman whose name Mr. Gold had suggested be changed, and wondered if that too were simply a pronunciation matter? For that matter, could this man’s true name actually be Dove?

As they were still rather a way off from the pier, Belle decided to pursue the subject. “Is the pronunciation of most dwarf names also difficult?” she began, then realized it could be awkward if Dove was in fact the name he had had since birth. “I wasn’t sure if—you see, I spoke with Pots this morning, and she said her name was suggested, somehow, by Mr. Gold, and I wondered if—”

“Dove is no more my true name than Pots is hers,” the large dwarf beside Belle confirmed. He continued, a smile evident in his voice, “Mr. Gold suggested Pots for her, as she is a gifted cook, and Dove for me—given my peaceable nature.”

Belle turned to him, puzzled. “I don’t understand?”

“I killed a man.”

It was said in a matter of fact way, as if he had just observed that the day was rather warms, or the dust in the carriage’s wake rather fit. Several beats of silence succeeded Dove’s shocking statement, until at last the big man looked sideways at Belle again, then dropped his hands so the horses could come to a stop.

“He was an evil man,” Dove continued, still in the calm, placid tones that appeared habitual to him. “He had a woman who could outshine the stars, and he used her cruelly.” For an instant Belle glimpsed something ruffle the stoic exterior beside her, but it was gone in the next blinking. “One night, when such cruelty was being done again, I began to fear for the woman’s life. She had become all to me, and I to her. I surprised the man and killed him, then fled with the woman—who you know as Pots.”

Belle exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “I’m sorry,” she said eventually, face heating as she realized she didn’t at all know what to say when confronted with such a history. “I didn’t mean to pry, there is just so much I don’t know about this place or the people yet—”

“Not at all, madam,” Dove reassured her calmly. “You are Mr. Gold’s woman, and therefore the mistress here. It is your right to know all about the persons serving you. You may feel free to ask me anything you wish.”

Belle swallowed, still feeling abashed, though she sensed nothing but sincerity in Dove’s speech. “Were—” she began, cleared her throat, and tried again. “Were you ever pursued?”

“Luckily, no. From the day of our flight until now, we have had no word from our former village. I have suspected, and Mr. Gold has agreed, that the other villagers did not feel it worth their while to inform the government of the happening. The man I killed—he was not the kind of man to be missed. By anyone.”

He said the last with a certain finality, as if there was nothing more to be said on the subject. 

Which, Belle supposed, was probably correct. She certainly could think of nothing more to say.

They arrived at the pier in the next moment, and as Dove assisted her down from the carriage Belle took in the scene before her. 

Her husband, Jefferson, and another man who Belle assumed could only be Captain Jones stood together, the Gold and Jones opposite each other with Jefferson in the middle. Belle nearly tripped over her footing as she took in her husband, for she felt she might have been forgiven for not recognizing him immediately. His face had a pronounced sneer upon it, his eyes alight with an almost reptilian gleam. _He’s a stranger_. The thought was unbidden, but once realized refused to be banished.

Words were being exchanged, in tones too loud to be cordial, Gold being currently addressed by the man who must be Captain Jones. Dove went swiftly to Gold’s side and Belle followed, peeping around the large man’s back.

Their arrival went unnoticed by the trio, and as they drew closer Belle could hear what was being said—or rather, shouted.

“He’s been stealing my workers for years, and neither you nor any other corrupt government official has seen fit to do a thing about it!” The Captain had directed the angry accusation at Jefferson, but now turned the full ire of his gaze back to her husband. He was taller than Gold, with a lean figure, dark hair and, almost laughably, a thin mustache and a gold ring in one ear. His face she supposed might be handsome, when not twisted with the hatred it now wore, but there were signs in the reddened nose and slight bulging at the gut that he likely enjoyed spirits to excess. The overall effect was rather piratical, and Belle had to suppress an absurd urge to giggle.

“The only pirate here is you, Jones,” Gold observed in the next moment, and Belle had to turn her head to the side to cough.

The sound unfortunately drew the attention of the trio, all of whom glanced towards her and Dove. Their expressions presented quite the contrast. Gold’s face was tight, as if keeping a firm grasp of himself, though whether that was in response to her presence of the current situation with Jones, Belle couldn’t guess. Jefferson smiled slightly and nodded in apparently genuine, though distracted, pleasure, while Jones leered, studying her body with a practiced air that made Belle feel somehow in urgent need of a bath. 

Jones watched her still as he answered Gold’s last remark. “The only thing I ever took from you, Gold, was entirely willing to be taken. _Begged_ to be taken, you might say—”

“That’s enough,” Jefferson snapped out, his eyes darting from Gold to the Captain and back again. Belle noted that whatever response Jones had been trying to provoke from her husband with that enigmatic comment had failed—Christopher appeared as implacable and distant as ever. 

“I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in that head of yours, Captain Jones, if you expect any further assistance from this particular corrupt government official,” Jefferson continued sternly. “Now what is it you want?”

Jones attention snapped back to the Commissioner, his expression near irate. “What I _demand_ is what I’ve been saying for the last half hour. _That_ man”—this with an accompanying gesture denoting Gold—has stolen two more workers from me in this last week. I’ve come to get them back!”

Jefferson turned to Mr. Gold with a slight sigh. “Have you obtained any new workers in the last week, Mr. Gold?”

Christopher’s expression remained unmoved, his voice was measured and calm. “As I already told you, I have. I’m never at a loss in workers wanting to come here—unlike some,” he shot a dismissive glance towards Captain Jones.

Dove broke in, his deep voice rumbling quietly over the others. “I’ve sent word for the men in question to gather here, Mr. Gold. They should be arriving shortly.”

Almost as if conjured by Dove’s voice, Belle saw approaching from the opposite direction to the house seven dwarfs, their expressions ranging from mildly apprehensive to downright fearful. Belle jolted slightly as she realized she recognized two of them as the dwarfs who had met Dove on the pier— _was it only yesterday?_ —just after she herself had arrived here.

The dwarfs came to a stop a few paces away from their party, and Dove moved toward them, speaking softly in a language unknown to Belle. His words appeared to have a calming effect, to judge by the dwarfs’ faces, and they moved to arrange themselves in a line in front of Gold, Jefferson and Jones.

“Here they are. Recognize any of them as your men?” Gold’s voice was taunting, insulting. Belle strongly suspected it was meant to be.

“I can’t tell just by looking at their faces. Have them take off their shirts.”

Jefferson glanced quickly to Jones, a look of distaste crossing his face. He looked back to Gold, who in turn nodded once, curtly, to Dove. Dove again said something in what Belle now assumed must be the dwarf’s native tongue, and the seven dwarfs all removed their shirts.

Captain Jones walked behind the dwarfs, looking at their newly exposed backs. Abruptly he reached out and pushed two from behind, shoving them forward to stand a few paces in front of their fellow workers. “These two are mine!” he declared, a look of triumph recasting his features into something cruel.

Jefferson moved towards the two dwarfs, turning each of them with much gentler pressure than the Captain had used. Belle couldn’t hold back a gasp as she caught sight of their backs—each was crisscrossed with scars as from a whip, some newly crusted over and some deeper, older…

Jefferson looked back at Captain Jones and gestured contemptuously at the twin masses of ruined flesh on display. “I see how you recognized them,” he bit out. “If I ever catch you using a whip on your workers, Jones, you’ll leave South America that same day.”

“These two are _my_ workers,” the Captain said again, ignoring both Jefferson’s indignation and threat. “I have the contracts with the thumbprints for each of them. Now, _Commissioner,_ ” the title was rendered with a sneer, “are you going to do your job, or not?”

Jefferson swallowed, patted the dwarf he was still holding on the shoulder, and moved to stand before Christopher.

“I have to ask you this,” Jefferson said somberly to his friend. “Where did you get these men?”

“Out of the jungle, where I get all my men,” Gold’s expression was implacable, his tone almost bored.

“Ask him for their contracts!” Captain Jones put in snidely.

“I make no contracts with my men,” Gold returned coolly.

“Then how do you keep ‘em?” 

“They just stay. Maybe because I have no whip.”

Captain Jones turned red in the face and spluttered, then moved to stand before the Commissioner, raising his fist. “These are my workers. I can prove it! And I’m taking them back with me!”

Jefferson opened his mouth to answer, but before he could Gold put in smoothly, “I’ll have to hang them first.”

There was silence. Belle, riveted to the scene, felt too shocked even to gasp. From what she could tell, the Commissioner and Captain felt the same, as both now eyed Gold as if they’d never seen him before. 

“ _Hang_ them?” Jefferson echoed at last, disbelief clear in his voice.

“They killed one of my men.” Gold’s voice continued imperturbable. “I’ll not allow either of them to leave my land until justice is served.”

“When did they kill your man?” Jones demanded.

“Last night.” Gold nodded to Dove once, curtly. “Show them, Dove.”

Belle almost started when the big man next to her moved into the trio’s tableau. Dove had been so silent and still throughout she had almost forgotten the other man’s presence. Looking around her, she realized the scene unfolding had acquired a number of spectators; perhaps twenty dwarfs now stood on or around the pier, expressions varying from mild interest to rabid curiosity.

Belle’s attention snapped back to the main actors in the little drama, as Dove drew out from a capacious pocket what seemed to be—but _couldn’t_ be-- none other than a shrunken head!

Gold broke the silence first, gesturing to the small head. “This is what’s left of the man they killed.”

The Captain reacted instantly, snatching the head from Dove’s grasp. “This? Why, it’s years old! This is obviously a trick, Commissioner.”

Jefferson in turn received the head from the outraged Jones. Jefferson held it in obviously reluctant fingers, turned it this way and that, and darted a quick look at Gold before he handed the purported evidence back to Dove and sighed. “The law is not clear in these circumstances. When I get back to the Home Office, I will confer with the other officials and determine next steps. Until then, the two men can remain on Mr. Gold’s land.”

“No.” Captain Jones’ voice had taken on almost a gleeful pitch. Looking at him, Belle saw a most unpleasant smile curling the man’s lips. “Mr. Gold is a man of honor,” he continued, directing a mocking bow towards her husband. “If he says he will see justice served, then by all means, let’s see it. Hang them now.”

Jefferson blinked. “ _Now_?” he echoed again, surprise rendering his voice higher than his normal intonation.

“Why not?” Jones demanded, his direct stare at Gold nakedly challenging.

“Yes, why not?” Gold agreed calmly, then glanced to Dove and barked a series of orders in the dwarf language. Dove nodded once, said something in his turn, and each of the two accused dwarfs were taken by the arms by others in the crowd and moved towards a large tree standing perhaps ten feet beyond the end of the pier.

Gold, equally mocking, waved a hand in a theatrical manner to Jefferson and Jones, inviting them to follow the crowd. The Captain struck out at once, the smile on his face now turning excited, as if a rare treat were in store. Gold followed him, implacable as ever. Jefferson trailed the other two, slow and pale, and Belle caught up with him.

“Mr. Jefferson, what’s going on?”

Jefferson turned toward Belle, a dazed look about him. “Oh, hello Mrs. Gold. I didn’t realize you were still here—”

“Jefferson, he _isn’t_ actually going to hang those dwarfs! _Is he_?”

Jefferson shook his head. “He wouldn’t—at least, I don’t think—no, I’m _sure_ he wouldn’t—by George!”

Belle followed Jefferson’s line of sight to see that two ropes had been tossed over one of the lower tree branches, and were being placed around the dwarfs necks. She and Jefferson hurried to the front of the crowd gathered around the tree. Gold and Jones were already there, the first surveying the Captain in a distant way, the latter watching the preparations with a repulsive enjoyment. The two condemned men themselves looked absolutely terrified at the sudden turn of events.

“Jefferson—this is shocking! Someone must do something!” Belle whispers urgently, putting her hand on his arm and shaking it slightly.

“Yes, yes—shocking,” Jefferson agreed, his eyes taking in the scene before him in disbelief. “Absolutely shocking! Someone should contact the Commissioner for this region.”

“Jefferson!” Belle’s exasperated tone finally succeeded in getting Jefferson to tear his gaze away from the events occurring at the tree, and stare directly at her. “Aren’t _you_ the Commissioner?”

He blinked once, owlishly. Blinked again. “Oh,” he said at last, voice breaking on the word. “Oh, yes! Yes! I am the Commissioner! You, stop there!” The last command was directed to the dwarfs now beginning to pull the ropes back, the toes of the victims centimeters away from leaving the ground.

“Let them down at once, I say!” Jefferson ordered again, dashing up to place himself between the two accused dwarfs. 

Belle heard another order come from Gold, and instantly the dwarfs were let go.

“I never thought you would go through with this, or I wouldn’t have let it go this far,” Jefferson stated irritably to Gold. “If you’re serious about hanging them, they of course have the right to a trial.”

“I have no issue with that, Commissioner. I can assure you they will be kept sequestered to my lands until such time as a trial date can be secured.”

Jefferson studied Gold for a long moment, then with the tiniest quirk of his lips, nodded reluctantly. “I suppose that would be the best course,” he said at last.

“I don’t agree!” Captain Jones voice cut in menacingly. “I told you, Commissioner, these are _my_ workers—”

“Who are facing charges of murder, charges for which they must answer in court, Captain Jones. In order to ensure they do so answer, I must determine where they will be likeliest to remain without escape. And, you will pardon me, but the frequency with which you lose workers does not lead me to conclude that your lands would be the better option, when compared to Mr. Gold’s.”

The Captain’s hands balled into fists while his face purpled in impotent rage, his eyes traveling from Gold to Jefferson and back again. “This isn’t over,” he hissed through clenched teeth, then turned on his heel and barreled through the crowd back toward the pier—

\--and ran straight into Belle.

She had tried to move back but had not been fast enough to avoid a collision with Jones’ shoulder. He looked back, anger writ large on his face, lending the features an ugly caste, but when he saw who he had nearly knocked down and a change came over his features. The anger remained, but it was joined by a lecherous stare that nearly swallowed her whole. 

“Ah yes—the new bride,” he said, his intonation turning the words into an insult, rather than simple statement of fact. He raised his voice, flinging his words over his shoulder, back towards Mr. Gold. “From her looks, I’d say it’s obvious where you obtained this one, Gold. But then, if a man does need—tutoring—it’s only fitting he seek out the services of a--shall we say, an expert?”

Jones stepped closer to Belle, who steeled herself to stand her ground. His proximity was making her skin crawl, but she would _not_ yield anything to such a contemptible creature. Her resolve was sorely tested when in the next moment his hand shot out, to grip her chin, turning her face up to him forcibly. “If you ever get tired of instructing Gold, sweet, you need only cross over to my lands. I’ll show you what a man can do—”

Belle was released the next instant, as a fist collided with Jones’ face and the Captain staggered back, wiping his mouth with his hand and coming away with the stain of blood. Belle stared as her husband as he advanced towards Jones, fist lifting to deliver another punch, only to be halted midstep by Jefferson, who hurriedly moved between the other two men.

“That’s enough!” he commanded. “One more move from either of you and you’ll both be brought up on official citation. Jones, begone from here.”

“No need to tell me twice. Enjoy the whore, Gold,” Jones spat a glob of blood which landed at Belle and Gold’s feet. “Though I doubt you’ll be any more able with her than you were with Milah.” With that, he departed, heading for the pier and his boat, docked and waiting for him.

Belle watched him go, then shifted her gaze to land on the blood on the ground before her. The pounding in her head from earlier that morning had returned with a vengeance, and she wasn’t sure how long he had been speaking to her before her husband’s voice penetrated the haze clouding her thoughts.

“Belle? Belle--are you all right?”

She looked up to see her Gold’s—her mind tried to replace the surname with Christopher, but failed this time-- face mere inches from her own, concern in the brown eyes, though he made no move to touch her. Belle nodded once. “I’m fine,” she said briefly, then moved away from him towards the two dwarfs who now sat at the base of the tree, apparently recovering from their part in the ordeal. She crouched down by them, offering her sympathy and assuring them of her assistance as long as they remained on the Gold estate, but the vast majority of her mind was occupied elsewhere. She had just witnessed entirely unsuspected sides of this new husband of hers, this stranger she had married before actually meeting, and she had no idea what to do with this new information. 

And it seemed there was to be yet another riddle introduced regarding her husband, to add to the list of items to tease and torment her--

\--namely, _who_ was Milah?

 

***

Le-roy sat with his back to the tree, legs sprawled in front of him, doing his best to calm his breathing and slow his racing heart. When he’d been assured that escape to Gold’s lands to work would be much safer than remaining in Jones’ territory, he certainly hadn’t expected to have to risk a hanging.

He had to admit, though, the scheme had been a clever one—and, apparently, had worked. When he and his fellow dwarf had met Mr. Gold’s head man and estate manager Dove on the pier yesterday, and Dove had slipped Le-roy the shrunken head and the cover story to go with it, just in case…well, Le-roy had thought it would be a long shot, either for the story to be needed, or for it to be believed if aired. 

Apparently, he had been wrong on both counts.

His vision was suddenly filled by the face of a woman. She was dark haired, with blue eyes and pale skin. Her stature could have marked her as a dwarf, but her clothes told a different tale—and besides, Le-roy recognized her as the woman who had been standing and talking on the pier yesterday, next to— _her_. That other, slighter woman who had arrived on the boat yesterday, the one who had the face of a fairy out of the folktales. The one who had left with the Mother Superior. Le-roy hadn’t been able to find out anything about _her_ , but he certainly knew who the woman before him was—the new Mrs. Gold. 

He focused on what she was saying, thanked her for her expressed offer of support and assistance and tried to introduce her to his companion, only to belatedly recall that, to non-dwarfs, his friend’s name sounded mostly like a sneeze.

Eventually the Commissioner called to Mrs. Gold and she excused herself, Dove taking her place before Le-roy and his friend and advising them both to rest and recover. It was advice Le-roy planned to follow wholeheartedly.

He closed his eyes, summoned the image of a fairy wearing the clothes of the women of the Rio Negro Mission, and drifted into sleep.


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody minds if the primary POV for this chapter switches to Gold, and the secondary POV shifts back to Belle, right? 
> 
> Cool.

It was probably rather surprising that he hadn’t shot that parrot yet, Gold mused irritably.

Or shot Jefferson.

Or both.

“No wise fish would ever go anywhere without a porpoise. No wise fish would ever go anywhere without a porpoise. _Squawk!_ ”

If he had to listen to that blasted bird recite that blasted line just _once_ more—

His thoughts skittered to a halt as delighted laughter sounded through the sitting room. Specifically, his _wife’s_ delighted laughter. Gold’s gaze, until now trained firmly on the scotch he’d been nursing for the last half hour, lifted almost against his will to land on the radiant vision across the room.

“It really is marvelous, how well it can mimic!” Belle said happily, cooing gently at the loquacious and foul fowl on the perch in front of her. 

“Not at all, Mrs. Gold,” Jefferson corrected from his seat beside Belle, simultaneously stroking the bird with one hand and handing Belle another biscuit to feed to the creature, as a reward for a job well done. “The marvel is in the patience and dedication of its instructor—namely, _me_.”

“Yes, Jefferson, your brilliance is blindingly apparent to all,” Gold broke into the conversation tersely. “But what, exactly, does this newest recitation mean? ‘No wise fish—'”

”—‘would ever go anywhere without a porpoise!’” Jefferson finished with a flourish. “It means, of course, whatever you want it to mean, my dear Gold. You can use it as conversational filler, as clever obfuscation, or--as _I_ do—in place of swear words.”

Belle shook her head and laughed again, softer this time, still focused on the parrot which had begun yet another round of repetition of the inane quotation. The renewed sound of her laughter arrested Gold mid-breath as he opened his mouth to reply to Jefferson’s nonsense. Gold had heard that laughter more than once today, though he had never inspired it. That privilege, it seemed, belonged solely to the Commissioner--and to that blasted bird. 

His wife’s laugh was, frankly, of a piece with the rest of her--which was to say, completely _captivating_. 

It had certainly captivated him, in any case. Gold simply couldn’t help his stare. He realized in some distant part of his mind what a besotted fool he must appear, but he couldn’t resist. If he were being entirely honest, he didn’t even wish to resist. They had hardly interacted at all today, and if covert gazing was all he would have of his wife before his departure upriver the next morning, Gold was not about to waste the chance. 

In truth, the utter lack of interaction had been a mutual accomplishment. After the scene with Jones down at the pier Belle had seemed--shaken. Which was, Gold admitted, a completely understandable reaction. Gold had felt unwilling in the extreme to disturb her reflections, aware that nothing she had seen was likely to have improved her opinion of her new husband, from his attack on the boorish Jones to the just-averted hanging of the two dwarf workers. That particular ruse--the use of the old headhunter artifact and the purported murder charge--had actually originated with Dove, but Gold had always thought it a potentially good one. He was pleased to have finally had it put to the test so triumphantly, but he had literally no idea if Belle understood that the dwarfs had never been in any real danger of being hanged. Gold was fairly certain that Jefferson, on the other hand, had eventually recognized the subterfuge for what it was, though of course what with Jefferson’s official capacity as Commissioner, it had not been discussed between the two of them. 

It had been Jefferson who had ultimately broken the lingering tension after Dove retreated to the house with the two recently condemned, and reprieved, workers. Belle, Jefferson and Gold had remained by the pier, each in various states of recovery from the eventful morning, and Gold had just extended an offer for Jefferson to accompany him and Dove on the morrow when they left for the remote dwarf village a day hence to gather information as to the potential _marabunta_ swarm. Jefferson had accepted with alacrity, indicating that two aborted hangings and a bout of fisticuffs was as much excitement as a man should reasonably be expected to tolerate for one day. He had proposed in the next breath taking the opportunity to conduct his annual tour of the Gold estate, noting that his inspection of Gold’s lands and produce was usually rather less demanding than similar reviews at other estates. 

“Either you’re more open than your peers about the amount of crop produced here for distribution, Gold, or you at least hide any undisclosed amount better than they do,” Jefferson had observed glibly. 

It was the former, actually, but Gold let the jibe pass without demur. It had often enough been the latter, after all, before he had really become established and felt comfortable enough with the annual profit margin to report accurate numbers. Every successful farmer must be a businessman, after all.

Belle, who had until then appeared lost in silent reflection, had requested permission to join the two of them on the tour, professing a great desire to know more of the land on which she was to live. She had been careful to avoid Gold’s gaze when asking to go with them, and he in turn had felt great reluctance to press her. He had mumbled a brief assent, Belle had taken Jefferson’s promptly offered arm, and that was that. For the next few hours, Gold had led the way, the other two trailing him, while the fields and storage sheds in closest vicinity to the pier were duly, if not very thoroughly, inspected by the Commissioner.

Jefferson’s presence had acted as a most convenient buffer throughout the morning. Neither Gold nor Belle had made any effort to directly address one another, and thus no words of inquiry or explanation had passed between them about the runaway dwarfs. 

Or the hanging.

Or Captain Jones.

Or Milah…

The three of them had returned to the house in the early afternoon, to rest during the heat of the day and wash and change for the evening meal. And still he had not spoken as much as two words to his wife. Gold let out a long breath in frustration. He would be gone early tomorrow, and remain away for the next few days, at least. If he didn’t talk to Belle soon, he could all too easily imagine a rift begin between them, here and now. An estrangement.

 _Another disappointment…another failed marriage_ …unbidden, his mind presented the comparison, and Gold swallowed an involuntary sound of protest. _Not again_ , he pleaded silently, though he was not at all sure from whom he was begging reprieve. _Not again_.

A slight movement over Belle’s shoulder dragged his eyes reluctantly from his bride, and instead Gold was confronted by Jefferson’s amused look and knowing smirk. The Commissioner gave an audacious wink, visible only to Gold, then turned back to hand Belle another treat. She fed it daintily to the parrot, first tearing it into bite sized pieces with her long, white fingers.

Gold swallowed again and forced himself to turn away from the scene, busying himself instead with fetching cigars for himself and his guest.

“I assume you’ll partake?” he tossed over his shoulder to the Commissioner, holding up one cigar while securing a second for himself.

“Need you ask?” Jefferson retorted gaily. He handed Belle a handkerchief which she used to brush the crumbs from her fingers, then returned to him with a murmur of thanks.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me, I believe I will retire. I find I’m a bit fatigued,” Gold’s wife noted, rising from her chair and glancing towards the general area where Gold remained standing. Their eyes still did not meet.

“Indeed, it has been quite the tiring day. What with the near hangings, and all,” Jefferson acknowledged, standing as Belle did. “I part from you most unwillingly, Mrs. Gold—you have improved the company here a thousand-fold. Yet I too must soon retire—must be up before dawn, you know.”

“Yes, you are going to accompany my husband and Dove to the dwarf village to try and discover more about the possible _marabunta_ threat, aren’t you?”

Gold watched as Jefferson’s jaw slackened in momentary surprise, then his engaging, almost manic grin broke over his face. “Thank you, Mrs. Gold!” he cried the next instant. “There are few greater joys than the knowledge that one’s initial assessment of a new acquaintance has been entirely accurate,” he explained, eyes sweeping over Belle in an open admiration that set Gold’s teeth on edge. “I said you’d do, Mrs. Gold, and I was absolutely correct.”

“I’m not sure if this is more a compliment to me, or to yourself, sir?” Belle answered playfully, and the spark of irrational jealousy that had started in Gold burned even brighter. It was ridiculous.

“It is absolutely in tribute to you, my dear lady,” Jefferson insisted. “So, you know about the _marabunta_ , do you? You’re displaying a remarkable sangfroid at the prospect, I must say. I look forward even more to our next meeting.” Jefferson ended the little speech with a courtly bow over Belle’s hand.

Belle withdrew her hand, then seemed to hesitate. Glancing once more towards Gold’s vicinity, she replied with some dignity, “Unfortunately, Commissioner, I am not certain there will be opportunity for a next meeting between us.”

“Whatever do you mean, Mrs. Gold?” Jefferson quickly looked from Gold to Belle and back again.

Lifting her chin slightly, his wife turned at last to face him, meeting his eyes fully for the first time since that morning. “I mean that I may be sent away--away from here.”

Gold felt his own chin lift in response to the challenge in her blue eyes. He met her gaze and held it as he answered Jefferson. “If the purported threat of _marabunta_ is substantiated, Mrs. Gold will certainly be departing. On the next boat downriver. The continued pleasure of her company would not be _worth_ the risk to her safety.”

“And, of course, _you_ are to be the sole judge of that? Without reference to my wishes at all?” Belle retorted immediately, her color high.

Gold’s mouth tightened. “We will continue this discussion at another time, madam. The Commissioner is not at all interested in it.”

“On the contrary,” Jefferson broke in, his eyes traveling from Gold to Belle so rapidly that Gold thought the man must be making himself dizzy. “I should be desolated to know Mrs. Gold was leaving us, even for so important a reason as her own safety.” 

Gold hardly heard him, standing as he was with eyes locked to Belle’s. The expression in her eyes was one of defiance mingled with—hurt? Confusion? Perhaps both.

At last Belle dropped her eyes, her shoulders falling slightly in an attitude of defeat. She turned back to the Commissioner and offered him her hand once more. “Good night, Mr. Jefferson. And, perhaps—goodbye.”

“Not goodbye, Mrs. Gold, though certainly good night,” Jefferson returned, patting her hand in a comforting gesture.

Belle smiled slightly as she withdrew her hand. “And don’t forget to take your porpoise with you, on the morrow,” she said, a teasing note returning to her voice.

Jefferson’s laughter burst from him in a sharp crack. “I shan’t forget, Mrs. Gold. Thank you.”

Belle nodded to him once, turned and inclined her head in Gold’s direction, then swept from the room. Gold moved slowly towards the door, watching her slight form as she moved across the courtyard.

Moving away from him.

“May I say something?” Jefferson said into the tense silence.

“No.” The denial was delivered immediately, Gold’s tone clipped.

Another silence fell, this one with a sullen quality to it. “From the looks of things, you anticipate a good crop this year?” Jefferson observed at last, resuming his seat, his tone carefully neutral.

Gold’s mouth tightened and he threw a scornful glance at his companion. “Do you really care?”

“Not at all,” Jefferson’s reply was flippant, but Gold sensed the edge beneath. “If you want to know, I’d much rather discuss your wife—”

“ _No_.”

“Very well. It’s yourself we’ll discuss, then—and how you’re apparently willing to throw away the best chance of happiness that’s likely to ever come your way.”

Gold paused, taking a seat opposite Jefferson. He blew the smoke from his lungs, then observed evenly, “I expect a better than average crop yield this year, thank you.”

Jefferson sat forward, his eyes intent. “I mean it, my friend. I’ve watched you these past ten years. I’ve seen the loneliness grow around you, ever since Baden left. Every year, you grow a little more lonely, and a little harder. You’re turning to stone.”

Gold shot Jefferson an exasperated glance, quickly looking away on encountering the Commissioner’s earnest expression. Jefferson apparently took his silence as permission to continue, for it appeared he wasn’t quite done yet.

“You should talk to her, Gold. Tonight—or at least before we leave, tomorrow.”

Gold stood again, feeling restless, and moved to the decanter on the sideboard. “Another for you?” he inquired of Jefferson.

The other man shook his head. “No, thank you. I shouldn’t have more with the early start we’ll need tomorrow. Nor should you, come to it.”

Gold paused in the act of pouring, then replaced the decanter and returned to his seat, sans drink. He caught Jefferson’s concerned gaze. “You’re probably right,” he said quietly.

Jefferson held his look. After a moment his mouth quirked up in a half smile, and he inclined his head slightly. “I sometimes am,” he answered.

Silence succeeded the exchange, but at least it wasn’t uncomfortable, now. This time it was Gold who eventually broke it.

“I didn’t get the chance to ask, earlier. Were you already on your way to the dwarf basin settlement when you encountered Jones, or had you planned to head inland?”

“Inland. But I’m sure the village at the basin will be able to give much of the information I was seeking,” Jefferson replied. “I met the regrettable Captain Jones en route. He was foaming at the mouth about his missing workers, so I decided I should turn around and accompany him here. I was worried.”

Gold snorted. “I can handle the pirate, you don’t have to worry about me.”

“I was worried about _Jones_ ,” Jefferson corrected. “Rightly so, as it turned out.”

Gold made a dismissive sound. “He deserved everything he got. The man’s a scoundrel. Always has been.”

“Personally, I agree wholeheartedly with that assessment. But in my capacity as Commissioner for this district, I’m afraid even scoundrels have the right to voice their complaints unmolested.”

Gold grunted, which could be taken as either acceptance or refutation of Jefferson’s view, as the latter preferred. He himself had no qualms about how he had acted--only insofar as how they had been perceived by Belle. She, of course, had no context for his actions towards Jones today. Possibly she might believe he had simply been defending his wife against the insults of a lout, which was true, to an extent. But there had been more to that punch Gold had thrown.

So much more.

Gold made a conscious effort to force multiple memories of the past from his mind and return to present concerns. “Does Jones know about the swarm possibility?”

Jefferson shook his head. “It didn’t come up. I don’t want to start a panic amongst the planters. Not until we’re sure.”

“There may not be much time,” Gold cautioned.

Jefferson sighed. “From all the documented swarms, there’s usually a few weeks’ warning. The speed of them ten years ago was an outlier, from all I’ve been able to determine.”

“It seems too soon to have another.”

“The one before last took place thirty-seven years ago. I looked it up before I left, to be certain. It seems they generally arise every quarter century or so—so yes, this would seem to break the pattern. But a hundred years would be too soon.” Jefferson appeared to hesitate, glancing up at Gold briefly before returning his eyes to the cigar in his hand. “At least we’ve the outline of a workable plan, in case it truly is another swarm.”

Gold felt his mouth hitch into a mirthless smile. He should have foreseen this, perhaps. Aloud he said, “I can assure you of my full cooperation, should the need arise. As for the aid of the honorable Mother Superior—you’ll have to confirm with her.” Gold felt the sharp gaze of Jefferson move over his face, and consciously relaxed his features into neutrality. He certainly didn’t need any more shades of the past to rise, tonight.

Fortunately, Jefferson seemed inclined to let the subject pass. “I’ll send a message by one of your dwarfs to the Mission, before we leave tomorrow, if that’s all right with you. If it _is_ —what we think it is—we’ll need her help.”

Gold nodded, a profound weariness descending on him. He leaned back in his chair, running his free hand rather distractedly through his hair.

Jefferson puffed from his cigar once more, then stood, looking nearly as tired as Gold felt. A smile suddenly transformed his features, and he observed in something of his usual jaunty way, “And now, I suspect we’re both off to deal with even more frightening prospects than marabunta. I’m behind in my correspondence to Gracie—terrifying that, corresponding with a twelve year old girl, especially when it’s one’s own progeny. _I_ have a letter to write to her, and _you_ —”

Jefferson stopped, his flare for the dramatic coming to the fore once more. Gold hid both sigh and tired smile and played along. “And I--?”

Jefferson’s expression sobered a bit. “You, I believe, have to speak with your new bride.”

 

***

Belle’s hands caressed the volumes on the shelf before her, gratefully greeting the old friends contained in the bound pages. The library of the Gold estate was extremely well stocked, and she had been pleasantly surprised to find so many favorites gathered together. F. Mallory, A Trollope, E. Gaskell, J Austen… In reviewing the familiar authors, she felt the old comfort that, perhaps insensibly, books had always provided her. 

An odd, yet undeniably factual, observance--that some inanimate objects could prove better company, and provide much more comfort, than some people.

Belle was in need of comfort tonight. Or at the very least, diversion. Otherwise she sensed she would be destined to lie awake half the night, ruminating on the day’s events and attempting to identify exactly how she felt about each of them, and more particularly about the main actor featuring within each of them—her husband. Belle might not be sure of exactly how she felt now—her emotional state might best be described as an equal mixture of wariness and weariness—but she was certain she did not want to spend the next several hours in wakeful, fruitless scrutiny. 

Hence, the library.

Her hand finally closed on a volume of Mallory and she turned to depart for her bedchamber, hoping to lose herself in the heroine’s tale of turmoil instead of ruminating endlessly about her own, when she was arrested by the sight of her husband on the library threshold.

Gold moved into the room a few steps, his eyes meeting hers, uncertainty in their depths. He cleared his throat once before offering a quiet, “Hello, Belle.”

Belle found her own mouth was equally dry. She swallowed quickly before managing a raspy, “Hello—Christopher,” in return, unsure if the slight stumble in her greeting would be registered. She realized almost instantly, somewhat to her own surprise, that she hoped it had gone unnoticed. 

Apparently, a vain hope. Gold’s face shuttered, and when next he spoke he had reverted to the cool, remote man of their very first encounter. “Forgive me for disturbing you. I’ve no wish to intrude on your privacy.”

He turned and would have been gone the next moment, when Belle hurriedly stretched out her free hand.

“Please,” she said quickly, then stopped, realizing she had literally no idea what she actually wished to say. She had not had the opportunity to come to terms with her own feelings about the day’s events, or about the man before her, but she was certain that he had placed the most negative construction possible on her hesitation to use his given name just now, and she knew that whatever she was feeling, it was not anger. Frustration, yes. An almost desperate desire for answers, assuredly. And him departing now, with no further opportunity for talk for some days at least, was no way to obtain the latter, or diminish the former.

Belle gestured towards the two wing chairs in the room, arranged on either side of the table on which the lamp that provided the room’s current illumination was set. “Please, Christopher—” she said again, more firmly, accompanying the request with a gesture towards one of the seats and moving to occupy the other. “Join me?”

He studied her a moment, his expression inscrutable, then moved toward the chair she had indicated, waiting for her to sit herself before he did likewise.

Belle felt he must have something to say to her—must have sought her out for some pressing reason, before leaving on the morrow. She thus waited in silent expectation, but either her assumption was incorrect, or he was still experiencing the same level of reluctance to speak to her that he had shown throughout the day. 

“It’s a good selection, here,” she offered at last, smiling a little as she indicated the book in her hand.

Her husband nodded, and Belle sensed a gratitude that she had opened the dialogue. “I’ve a standing order for newly published works to be shipped here,” he answered quickly, almost tripping over the words. “It’s often my custom to come in here to sit for a time, after dinner.”

“Then perhaps it is _I_ who have intruded on _your_ privacy,” Belle said ruefully. “I can go, if—”

“No.” The refutation was firm. “I wanted to talk to you, Belle. I wanted to explain, about—today.” Belle simply looked at him, and after exhaling noticeably, Gold continued, calmer now. “About the dwarfs, Captain Jones—all of it.”

“I’m listening,” she offered softly.

Gold regarded her steadily for a moment more, then leaned forward slightly. “Belle, you must know I would never have actually hanged those dwarfs. It was all a trick. I was counting on Jefferson, as Commissioner, to intervene.”

Belle smiled slightly. “I did realize it—though not until afterward, I confess. It was rather ingenious—and, I think, rather fine of you, to help those poor workers escape that terrible man and his whip.”

She couldn’t tell in the rather low light, but it seemed Gold colored slightly at her words of praise. “The main idea was Dove’s,” he corrected hurriedly. “As for helping the poor devils—that might better be thought of as a by-product, and not the actual motivation. I did it almost entirely to get the better of Jones.”

“You give yourself too little credit,” Belle demurred.

“I won’t have you thinking me a philanthropist,” Gold countered firmly. “In assisting those dwarfs, I gain grateful workers for my own estate and thwart an old enemy. I won’t have it made out to be more than that.” He hesitated, then went on. “But also, I wouldn’t have you thinking me a violent man, in general. Again, it’s only with Jones that I’ve ever resorted to physical force—and I can assure you it was not without provocation, either time.”

“I can certainly vouch that today’s provocation was extreme,” Belle agreed steadily. “I also wanted to thank you for acting as you did. His insinuations were vile, and when he touched me—” she shuddered slightly in recollection. “In that moment, I was afraid.”

“You needn’t be,” Gold assured her. “I would never let him harm you.” He hesitated again, sitting back slightly, seeming to steel himself for what was coming next. Belle felt she knew what it must be. Her thoughts were confirmed with his next words.

“Jones also mentioned a woman. Milah.”

 _Milah_. Belle felt the same clench in her chest on hearing that name now that she had felt when she first heard it, earlier that morning. It was one of the many sensations she had yet to identify. She only knew it was unpleasant in the extreme. 

“He did,” she said softly. “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to. I truly don’t want to invade your privacy, or make you uncomfortable, particularly when there is so much else going on just at present—”

“Belle,” he broke in, just as softly. “I want to tell you. I was being a coward, hoping it would never come up. I see that now, but—well, if you are willing to hear it, I’d like to tell you.” 

Belle felt a rush of eagerness dispel her fatigue. “I’d like to hear whatever you have to tell me, Christopher.”

Her husband smiled faintly, an expression that only just reached his eyes. “Thank you,” he murmured, then sighed softly. “The devil of it is, I’ve no notion where to begin,” he continued, the bitterness in his voice making Belle wince in sympathy. “My connection with Milah—it was a sad, sordid business for most of the time it lasted. I was a besotted fool at the beginning, likely no different than any other lovelorn youth. And by the end--”

Belle waited for him to go on, but as time stretched out he seemed lost in memories—of the deeply painful variety, to judge from his expression. “By the end?” she asked softly, nigh desperate to bring him back to the present—back to her.

Anguished brown eyes met hers. “By the end, I was no better than a killer.” He took a deep breath, holding her gaze through her startled gasp. “For that’s what I did, Belle.

“I killed Milah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about using Lewis Carroll quotes in place of swear words comes from yet another old film, Pimpernel Smith. Also highly recommended :)


	8. Chapter Seven

It was probably surprising, Belle mused distantly, that she wasn't more surprised by her husband’s declaration. 

_"I killed Milah."_

The words seemed to hang in the air between them as they sat in the library, their wing chairs facing each other at an angle, the table with its lamp giving off a rather muted light between them. 

Belle realized suddenly that she must have stopped breathing after her initial, gasping inhalation in response to Gold's admission. She let out her breath now, slowly, studying the man beside her whilst she did so and trying to determine just _why_ it was that this apparent confession of homicide was not affecting her more. By rights, it should have been _shattering_ , and yet…

The object of her scrutiny was fixedly avoiding her eyes, his own resting with determination somewhere in the vicinity of her slippers. At the sound of her soft exhalation those same eyes closed and he appeared to brace himself, as if against a heavy blow.

It was that tensing of his frame that finally spurred Belle to speech. “For goodness’ sake, Christopher, you needn’t act as if we were players in a three-penny melodrama,” she rebuked him, her tone bracing. “I’d much rather you simply told me what happened with Milah.”

If his apparent confession of a killing had failed to shock her, her remonstrance had certainly produced that reaction in him. Gold stared at her, mouth agape, for a long moment before he eventually found his voice. “By all the—” he broke off, seemingly reduced to wordless staring, and Belle couldn’t help but notice that, when frustrated, his accent became more pronounced. “Belle,” he started again, more determined, only to stop again, at a loss for words. His third attempt was more successful, affronted indignation reigning supreme in voice and manner. “What the bloody hells do ya mean, a three-penny melodrama?”

“I’m not sure what else you would call such a gratuitous display of dramatics,” Belle replied with spirit.

“Dramatics!” His voice climbed an octave on the exclamation. 

“Oh, come now, Christopher! If staging a _faux_ hanging to help some runaway dwarfs isn’t a prime example of dramatic behavior, I’m not sure what would qualify. Since I am aware it is also an example of exactly the sort of thing you would do, how else can I respond, other than to think your phrasing just now is yet another example of dra—” she paused, his face having turned a rather alarming shade of puce during her speech, “--shall we say, a somewhat theatrical flair?”

Gold’s sneer was most unpleasant. “It might, instead, be an example of a true blight on my character, dearie. A rather dangerous precedent established, causing the death of a woman united to me by matrimony. Such a precedent might justifiably cause the next woman I married some alarm.”

“If there was indeed such a precedent, I might be alarmed,” Belle acknowledged with a shrug, then raised her chin a fraction. “I would, however, venture to wager that you had no hand, directly, in Milah’s death. Or are you going to tell me that you shot her, or stabbed her, or—or poisoned her, or something?”

The sneer abated as she spoke, and a muscle in the left corner of his jaw twitched as he held her gaze for a long moment before turning his eyes back to the floor. “No,” he confirmed at last, quietly. “I did nothing to _directly_ cause Milah’s death.”

Belle felt a small knot of tightness in her chest ease. “But,” she said softly into the silence that succeeded his statement, “you _did_ play a role in her—end?”

Gold’s mouth twisted sourly, his eyes still directed anywhere but on hers. “Aye,” he nearly whispered, then ran an agitated hand through his hair and snorted gently. “Perhaps your characterization of the whole affair was not so far off at that—a three-penny melodrama it was, complete with a betrayed husband who would not be additionally cheated of his vengeance.”

He subsided into an abstracted silence for so long that Belle eventually felt compelled to break it. “I would still hear the tale, if you would tell it to me,” she offered.

Gold eyes met hers swiftly before skittering away again. “I need you to know,” he said in answer, then nodded once, though whether to convince himself or his bride, Belle couldn’t have said. There was another long pause, while Christopher seemed to be gathering his thoughts, before he let out a long, slow sigh and began to speak.

“I think I may have to start rather far back--with my own father, Malcolm Gold. He had the sole care of me until I was perhaps eight or nine. That was in Scotland, in Edinburgh mostly, though we did a fair amount of travel around the surrounding towns and villages. Walking, mostly. Sometimes we would hitch a ride on a cart going our way, or if papa had any coin to spare we could buy spots on the local mail coaches. There wasn’t often spare coin, though. There wasn’t often spare anything, in fact. The only toy I can remember having was a little rag doll—I don’t recall where it came from—that I cherished until I was about six, when papa became angered at seeing me still clinging to it and tossed it aside, saying I was too big to amuse myself with such things.

“I’m not sure when, exactly, I realized just how my papa acquired the coin to feed us, clothe us and afford his…various vices. I do remember thinking it a great game, in the beginning—a game I was good at, which pleased me, and which in turn pleased papa greatly. He’d be setting up his card table on some busy side street, calling for spectators to witness miraculous marvels and sleights of hand. Card tricks and the like, they were. To give him credit, he was very good at them. And while folk came, and watched, and moved on, I’d be watching, too. Watching for his nod to me, to see which onlooker he’d selected.

“For me to rob.”

Belle couldn’t stifle her gasp of outrage. Gold looked at her quickly, eyes probing hers, likely not able to miss the revulsion in them. “A horrible man,” she said at last, and he nodded once, tightly.

“In many ways, he was. But—Belle, you must understand. At that stage, I worshiped him. He was my entire world.”

“I believe it is often thus, with parents and young children,” Belle ventured. 

It seemed the reassurance he needed to continue. Gold nodded again, took a breath and resumed his story. “I was about nine when I was caught for the first time. I’d been growing, was a bit less coordinated in my movements, and frankly by then I’d grown bored of this ‘game’ of papa’s. The man who had been selected felt me reaching for his purse and set up a hue and cry. I was not taken up by the authorities—I was still too fast for that---I ran, and later met papa at the place he had always told me to go in the event of such an occurrence. We’d never had to meet there before. When I arrived, he was waiting for me. I’d never seen him so angry. He told me we were leaving Edinburgh in the morning, to go visit some old friends of his. The next day, I met my aunts for the first time.

“I’m not sure exactly how we’re related, actually. I always called them ‘aunt,’ and they never corrected me. I waited inside their home while papa spoke to them both, outside. I didn’t learn until much later that this was because he’d been forbidden to set foot in their house ever again—they had had charge of him at one point in his youth, and he’d repaid their care and kindness by robbing them one night and running away. They’d never seen him again, until he turned up with me. 

“When the aunts came back inside, they sent me out to say goodbye to him. He seemed—distant, somehow. As if he’d already left me, which of course is what he told me he planned to do, to leave me in the care of these women, these strangers, until he could come for me again. I remember crying, begging him not to go—“ Gold stopped abruptly, stood and moved towards one of the bookcases. His hand, which had clenched to a fist, came to rest on one of the shelves. After a moment, he opened it, laying the palm flat, and spoke in a low, emotionless tone. “I remember praying every night that he would come back for me. I must have done that for months, perhaps a year…and then, I started praying that he never would come back at all.” Gold turned to face Belle, a wry expression on his face. “Those prayers must have worked, for I never saw him again.”

“Never?” Belle asked, aghast. “He abandoned you?” At Christopher’s slight nod, Belle dropped her eyes, mulling over the sad tale. Her heart clenched for the little boy he must have been, likely grieving for a father, however poor a paternal specimen. “Perhaps,” Belle posited, “perhaps he felt he was doing the best for you, under the circumstances?”

The wry look faded, leaving something hard and implacable in its wake. “I have tried to believe that, over the years. Perhaps I would have succeeded--if I’d never actually known Malcolm Gold.”

Belle searched his face and swallowed against the dryness in her throat. She was not quite sure if she wanted to know, but—“And, the aunts? Were they—?”

Gold’s face instantly assumed a softer expression, a slight smile even tugging at a corner of his mouth. Belle let out a breath of relief as he reassured her. “They were wonderful to me. Placing me with them was in truth the best thing my papa could have done for me. They were maiden ladies, sisters. Already old when I first knew them, but still spry. They had a small sheep farm in one of the villages surrounding Edinburgh, and supported themselves by spinning the wool from their flock and selling it at the various markets, sometimes as far afield as Edinburgh itself. In time, that was my job—to take their wares into the markets or the city and fetch the best price. It was discovered I could drive quite the bargain. The aunts—Matty and Abby, they were called—grew fond of me, as I did of them. They came to see me as their own, eventually—Abby hoped I would take over their farm, one day. Matty was too canny for that though. She’d seen, nigh before I did, that though happy to be living with them, life in the village would never be truly comfortable for me. Malcolm Gold had cast quite the long shadow in that area, and the son of Malcolm Gold was not welcome in many a home. I was tolerated publicly, for the sake of my aunts whom everyone loved, but when they were not around…”

Belle felt another short stab of pain for the loneliness of the growing boy he had been. “What happened then?” she prompted after a moment, when he seemed on the verge of losing himself in an unpleasant memory.

Gold paced in front of her, the movement perhaps helping to dispel whatever unfortunate recollections had threatened. “The day I learned about the opportunities of the Amazon happened to also be the day I first met Milah,” he continued, voice carefully controlled. He stopped pacing, leaning against another bookshelf, arms folded. “I’d gone up to Edinburgh with the latest of the aunt’s spun efforts. They’d fetched a good price, and quickly too—it was already looking to be a cold autumn, and folk were planning ‘gainst an even more bitter winter than the previous year had been. That may have been why the poster seemed so particularly appealing that day—in perpetually cold, perpetually raining Scotland, that day was particularly dreary. I’d some time on my hands, having sold the wool fast, and had planned to spend the free time thus gained in wandering the city. Outside a concert hall, a man was shouting something, gesturing at intervals to a poster beside him. Many a man stopped to hear him, though only a few ended up going into the hall. I eased my way towards the front of the crowd where I could hear, and see. The poster was a picture of the Amazon jungle, and the man was there to give a presentation to anyone interested in finding opportunity and fortune as a planter in that wilderness.

“I went in and heard the man speak. I was captivated by what I heard and, in the way of youth, my mind focused almost exclusively on the potential benefits of the course he laid out, not paying any attention to the myriad possible difficulties or potential setbacks which, to his credit, the fellow didn’t shy away from addressing. The scheme was a simple one—it had been found that wide swaths of land under the Empire’s domain in the Amazon could be cultivated into profitable farms, for growing coffee or chocolate, which could then be sold at high profits to the markets in Spain or the United States—or even back to the British Isles. A group of speculators had put together a program to make such an opportunity known to those who might be willing to give up their current life and try to better themselves in the Amazon. Land grants would be made available to any able-bodied man over the age of 16, and transportation to South America, and a stipend for the first three years was included also. To any man who signed on, training during the journey and texts on the landscape and various aspects of chocolate growing would also be made available. I left with several of those texts, having signed my name to depart the following spring. I couldn’t wait to tell the aunts what had happened, though in fact I don’t think I actually did get around to discussing my plans with them until some days later…for it was on my way back to the village that I first met her. Milah.”

Belle sat back slightly on hearing the name. She had become so engrossed by Christopher’s tale she had nearly forgotten the reason for its beginning. _Milah_. Specifically, the _late_ Milah. Her hands smoothed over her skirts restlessly, then stilled as she noticed his hands twisting in a similar way, as he resumed his pacing across the room. Strange, perhaps, that this evidence of his own anxiety should help quiet hers, but so it was.

Gold started to speak again. “Milah’s family—mother, father, young brother—had come to our village from another on the other side of Edinburgh, after their farm failed and her mother became ill. They had an older cousin in our village who had agreed, though grudgingly, to take them in for a time. I met Milah and her family, as I said, on my way back to the village that same day I’d signed onto the venture in the Amazon. I provided some small service helping unstick their cart from a muddy hole, and the acquaintance began. I—” he broke off momentarily, and Belle, studying him, fancied she saw a faint blush climb his neck in the dim light. Gold cleared his throat and continued, “I had never been exactly popular with the girls in the village. No one wanted their daughters to have anything to do with Malcolm Gold’s son. But Milah never seemed to mind that, or with her father preoccupied with her mother’s illness, perhaps neither ever spoke to her, to warn her away from me. Not that she showed me any great favor above the other young men in the village, for she was pretty, and new, and popular because of it, but she never treated me any differently than any other of her other admirers. She would allow me to walk with her, if we went the same way, talk with her. She had dreams too, of a better, different life than that of a village in Scotland. When I told her of the Amazon, she said it sounded exciting. It was—quite a different reception than my aunts had given me.”

“They were against the idea?” Belle posited.

“Not absolutely against,” Gold demurred, “more in favor of my taking more time to consider it. I overheard them discussing it one night. Aunt Abby feared my interest in such a radical uprooting might mean I was starting down the path of my father, but Aunt Matty persuaded her that it was more likely simple wanderlust, which she felt was the purview of the young man. ‘Better for him to get it out of his system now,’ I remember her saying. So my plan to depart in the spring remained intact.

“Then the winter came.” Gold let out a long sigh. “It was hard, that year. A spate of sickness devastated the village. By the end of winter, hardly a family was left untouched by it. Milah’s mother, father, brother—all succumbed. And…both of my aunts.”

Belle made a soft noise of distress. “I’m so sorry, Christopher. That must have been devastating.”

He glanced at her, old grief tempered by the passage of years in his face. “It was—difficult,” he acknowledged heavily.

“How long did they pass, before you were to start your journey?”

“About a month. I was considering selling everything, the cottage, furniture, sheep, all of it—to my mind, I wouldn’t be coming back again, so why not? But as it happened, I _did_ find another use for all of it—when I married Milah.

“She had lost her family, in the wave of sickness. The cousin they had come to stay with had his own burdens multiplied just at that time, and had no wish to continue to keep a dowerless girl in addition to his own family. Milah had been popular with the young men of the village, but her lack of a marriage portion meant that popularity didn’t equate to any proposals. And there was I, with a cottage that now held only me, some land, some sheep and some savings I had inherited from the aunts. It wasn’t much, but…I offered it all to her. And felt I was the luckiest man in the world when she accepted me. The banns were read and we were married just the day before I left for the Amazon.”

“She didn’t want you to change your mind, stay in Scotland?”

He shook his head. “No. She expressed nearly the same excitement for the venture that I did. The only quarrel we had about it was that she wanted to leave with me, immediately. Not wait until I sent for her. It simply wasn’t possible. Signees had been told that it would likely take two full years before any lands would begin to give any kind of yield, and perhaps another year after that until profit could be realized. Living conditions would be harsh, the climate unforgiving. Realistically, there was a significant chance the entire enterprise could fail. I thought our best course would be for Milah to remain on my aunts’—now my—lands, for those first few years, until I had an idea of whether I would succeed or no. Then I would send for her. She was reluctant, but in the end she agreed.

"I left a few days after our wedding. The journey itself was organized and planned by the entrepreneurs who had succeeded in convincing the government to lease the holdings to interested potential planters--men like myself. Some basic equipment for starting our individual ventures would be leased to us over the first two year period, and part of the ship's voyage was spent in going over this equipment, its uses and potential breakdown points. There were seven of us who had signed and made the voyage. I had just turned 18, so was amongst the youngest of those who had signed on. There was only one man younger, named Jones--Killian Jones."

Belle stiffened in her chair. " _Captain_ Killian Jones? From this morning?"

Gold nodded. "The same. Not that he called himself a captain, then. Nor was he actually a potential planter--he was going out to join his older brother, who had already established the Jones plantation some years before. The brother--Liam was his name--had experienced a decline in his health, so he'd sent for his younger brother to come out and partner with him. The Jones brothers," Gold finished derisively.

"This brother--was he of similar ilk to Captain Jones? Regarding the treatment of his workers?"

Gold's mouth tightened. "The same. Likely where the pirate learned his ways, in fact."

Belle thought on that. "It must have been very unpleasant to have them as your nearest neighbors," she said at last, which surprised a bark of a humorless laugh from her husband. 

"That is an understatement of some significance," he observed dryly. "It was, as you say--unpleasant--to have the Jones brothers so near, in those early days and even now. My appellation of pirate attached to the drunken Captain is not without merit, I assure you. You saw the locks at the dam earlier this morning, that keep the structure in place? Without them, my whole plantation would be 6 feet under the river, where I got it from. Those locks were part of the start-up equipment given each prospective planter. Mine disappeared within the first month. I had to send upriver for replacements, which delayed my entire venture significantly. And that wasn't the only incidence of theft. Other necessary equipment, large and small, supplies, tools, seed, workers--eventually, I realized what was happening, the only scenario that made sense. The elder Jones was reluctant to see another planter take hold so close to his own acreage. My own workers and I started to retaliate in kind, and from there things escalated to small acts of sabotage, on both sides. But the end of the matter was that what I expected to take me two years--to get a foothold in this land and start turning profit--took over twice that long. Nor was it only the Jones brothers I had to contend with. There seemed to be a new setback every month, in those early days. I started with twenty acres and five workers, nearly forgot the English language in that time due to almost complete disuse. Now I've 800 dwarfs working for me across 200,000 acres of river bottom, with an irrigation moat and sanitation drains in place, and living conditions on my lands are such that many dwarfs will brave much to come to me, but back then I would lose workers to flies, worms, lice or the half a dozen fatal diseases that only exist here in the jungle."

Belle felt her mouth was likely agape, so engrossed was she in his telling, in the hardship and adversity--all so _different_ from anything, from anyone, she had ever encountered before. Comparison in her mind to Gaston could hardly be avoided, and once again Belle knew with certainty that her first husband would never have had the will to endure what the man before her had endured, or to build what Gold had accomplished. "Did you never think of giving up?"

He met her eyes with a wry twist of the lips. "No. Through sheer obstinacy, perhaps. I couldn't let the jungle win."

"That seems remarkably—foolish,” she observed, and he let out of small huff of laughter. “But also--remarkably brave.”

The hint of color she thought she’d glimpsed earlier crept up Gold’s neck again at her words. “Well, as to that…yesterday, when we met for the first time face to face, you mentioned feeling a compulsion to come to the Amazon.”

“Fate,” Belle whispered.

“Yes, fate. Suffice it to say, I have felt that same pull, to this same place. I couldn’t have left.”

They gazed at each other for measureless moments, Belle eventually looking away to her hands in her lap. She swallowed against a dryness in her throat, then asked, haltingly, “And, Milah? When did she join you?”

Gold coughed once. “I was able to send for her after almost five years here. She joined me six months later.

“It was a disaster, almost from the beginning. This house, as you see it now, had yet to be constructed. The dwelling I mainly lived in was almost half a day upriver by boat, almost a full day by carriage. It was better than anything either of us had known in Scotland, but nothing to the comparative splendor that had been proposed, or that older estates like that of Liam Jones enjoyed. And it was isolated. The two of us were thrown together, day after day, in much closer company than ever before. It didn’t take long for her to become desperately unhappy, to start asking for her freedom.

“Freedom?” Belle echoed, momentarily confused. “A divorce, you mean?” she realized, unable to keep the tinge of scandal from coloring the word. 

Gold’s eyes dropped again to the floor, and his voice was carefully neutral in his reply. “An annulment, actually. For—for non-consummation. It’s not so uncommon a reason for the dissolution of marriage, out here. The Amazon does not suit many women.”

Belle thought on that, recalling that he had mentioned that some similar arrangement could be accomplished in their case, if they did not get on together. “What changed her mind?”

Dark eyes lifted to blue again, met and held. “She didn’t,” came the stony reply.

Belle’s confusion from moments before returned. “What?”

Gold continued to hold her gaze, his expression cold. “Milah _didn’t_ change her mind. She told me after a month that she wanted to leave me, wanted to return to Scotland. I refused to let her leave.”

Confusion began to give way to mild alarm. “You— _refused_?” Belle couldn’t quite take in what she was hearing. This was the man who had written to his son provisions for separation from any potential spouse, who Emma had vouched would never trap a woman into staying with him, and—“You refused to give Milah her freedom?”

“I did.” Gold continued to stare at her, his expression implacable. “At least, I did for a long time.”

“What do you mean?”

Gold at last looked away, beginning to pace once more. “We didn’t suit, Milah and I. She saw it long before I did, but even I was coming to the same conclusion after several months had passed, with no improvement in our relations. I think what took both of us by surprise was her encountering a man she _could_ develop a—deeper connection with, here in the Amazon.”

“Killian Jones,” Belle breathed in sudden realization.

“Indeed. I’m not sure how they met, or for how long it had been going on when she finally did leave. The dwelling we used at that time was half a day’s ride from the Jones plantation, so it’s conceivable that they could have met by chance. Or the pirate could have planned the seduction of my wife intentionally. I’ll never know. What was plain was that Milah had found a man she preferred to her husband. She and Jones eloped to his brother’s plantation about six months after Milah had arrived in the jungle.”

Belle let out a breath, considering it all. “And—did an annulment ever take place?”

“It did.” It was said shortly. “After about five years, I agreed to dissolve our marriage.”

“Five years?” Belle repeated, mystified. “But, _why_? Why not grant it at once, as she had abandoned you? Or why after five years, if not at once?”

Gold sighed heavily. “I was hurt. In my pride, if not my heart. I have no excuse but that—and, knowing that she wanted to annulment so that she and Jones could wed. It was petty, it was vindictive, but it was true that I obtained no small amount of pleasure from the knowledge that I was preventing their union in clinging to ours. As to why I agreed after five years…that was when Baden came into my life.”

Belle felt the tension in her frame begin to lessen fractionally at the mention of Baden. For a moment, the man before her had seemed nothing like what she had assumed, but the mention of his son provided a needed reminder that the events of which he spoke had taken place almost twenty years ago. A person could change in that time, surely…

“On Baden’s arrival, I found I had less and less time for revenge. I also realized, quite quickly, that I did not want to set the kind of example in the treatment of women that my own papa had shown me. About three months after Baden came, I signed the documents giving Milah her freedom. She and Jones married quite soon thereafter—and Milah died within the next year.”

“What,” Belle swallowed against her dry throat and tried the question again. “What did she die of?”

“One of those diseases I mentioned earlier—that are only contracted here, in the jungle. That are often fatal, but easily avoidable—by not staying in this climate. Which, if Milah had been allowed her way, she would not have done.”

They were both silent a long time, each likely considering all that had been said until then. Belle stirred at last, voicing the culmination of her rumination on the events related. “It wasn’t your fault. Her death—that wasn’t your fault.” 

Gold gave a deep sigh. “Not directly, I know,” he conceded, raising his eyes to hers with a mirthless smile. “Indeed, I did not stab Milah, or shoot her or do anything else. I never mistreated her, physically. But I do bear some culpability in her death, Belle. That cannot be denied.”

“I’m not so certain,” Belle demurred thoughtfully. “You did prevent her initial departure, granted. But it appears that, eventually, she chose to remain in the Amazon?”

Gold nodded once, reluctantly.

“And…she found some happiness?”

Again the smile that was nothing of the sort. “From all I ever heard, they were content together.”

“Perhaps then, she was fated to come here also…just not to be with you,” Belle concluded gently. She watched Gold’s face as he stood just beyond the dim lamplight, stock still, staring at her, his expression unreadable. His response, when at last it came, caused her to jump in her chair.

“This is nigh madness. How _can_ you be so trusting of me?” He demanded harshly, moving close to her chair, so close her skirts brushed his trouser legs. “So casual of your own freedom? I kept my first wife bound to me Belle, far longer than she desired. I kept her legally bound to me for years, even after she had abandoned me for another man. I could do the same to you.”

Belle stood abruptly, her chin high, holding his gaze. “You could,” she acknowledged. “But you _won’t_. You wrote as much to Baden, in your first letter beginning the search for a bride. Baden trusted your word. Emma trusts you too, and she was certain you never would keep a woman bound to you unwillingly. And last night, you gave me your assurances again, all unasked. Baden and Emma trust your word—and so do I.”

“You shouldn’t,” came the cold rebuttal.

Belle’s shoulders lifted, then sank again almost wearily. “Perhaps I shouldn’t,” she agreed, a bit helplessly. “But I _do_.” She reached out to him, haltingly, placing a hand onto his arm. The muscles tensed beneath her touch immediately, and his expression changed from coldly remote to confusion just as quickly. “I do trust you, Christopher,” she repeated softly. “Nothing I’ve heard tonight has changed that.”

“Belle,” he said, his voice raspy, his eyes searching hers then dropping to rest intently on her mouth. His other hand came up to hold her arm, mirroring her position, and Belle was certain she was a breath away from being kissed, when he suddenly stepped back from her, his motion jarring her nigh off balance. His arms shot out again quickly to steady her, lowering her back down to her chair, then moving back to resume his own seat. Belle felt her face flame with bewildered embarrassment, and could only just bring herself to angle towards him when he next began to speak.

“I’m sorry, Belle,” he said hoarsely, and Belle could see out of the corner of her eye that he once again ran his hand through his hair, the gesture agitated. “I never thought—that is, I feel I must—” he broke off at last with a muttered curse, and for once Belle felt no compulsion to speak into the subsequent quiet. It stretched on, and Belle noted the same hand that had run through his hair now passed over his face, shaking as it did so. “There is something else,” he spoke at last into the silence, though so softly Belle almost had to strain to hear him, “something else that I feel you have the right to know.”

Belle held her breath, willing him to read in her stillness enough encouragement to continue. It was all she had energy for, at this stage.

Apparently, it sufficed. “When I spoke—earlier—about non-consummation being the usual reason given for annulments in the Amazon, that was quite true. It is the most common reason, even if not usually conveying the truth of the marital relations of the couple in question. What I feel you should know, is—it was nothing less than the actual truth, regarding Milah and me.”

Belle felt her brain had slowed somewhat, that it was taking longer than it should to decipher what was being said. When she finally realized, she lifted startled eyes to the man beside her. “The actual truth?” She echoed faintly.

Gold nodded slightly, the tell-tale flush she was beginning to know so well starting at the base of his neck again, creeping up to his cheeks and brow line before her very eyes. “The factual truth,” he further clarified.

“You and Milah—never--?”

He shook his head. “I—” he cleared his throat, started again. “I believe I referenced, earlier, my papa’s—vices. One of them was a taste for female company. I was too young at the time to realize what was happening, while I would wait in the taprooms for him, or what the various women meant when they would track him down, and tell him they were ‘in trouble’—but later, as I grew older, I remembered what I had seen, and understood what it had meant. When I married Milah in Scotland, we discussed matters. I didn’t want to take the chance of leaving her with a babe and no means of ongoing support, if anything should happen to me. Later, when she joined me in the jungle—well, she didn’t hide the fact that she thought the years of worry and strain in establishing my lands had taken their toll on my attractions, slight though they had been to begin with. I would never force a woman, Belle—and so, Milah and I never were…”

“That’s what Captain Jones meant, this morning,” Belle muttered, almost to herself, taking in this additional, startling revelation.

Gold’s mouth twisted. “Yes, Milah felt no compunction about discussing all aspects of our relationship with her paramour,” he remarked bitterly.

Belle was quiet, gathering her thoughts. “And—” she broke off, feeling her own color rising steadily in a wave of heat from her bosom to her cheeks, “have you—ever--?”

“No.” The admission was delivered quietly, almost entirely opposite to the other statement he had made in this room a bare half hour ago. As Belle had felt, instinctively, that that first claim of homicidal activity had been exaggerated, she felt equally certain that this negation was nothing but truth. That certainty was bolstered in the next moment, when Gold continued, “The girls in my village, growing up—they’d never deign to notice the son of Malcolm Gold. And I was married by the time I came to the Amazon. After Milah…Baden was there, and I would not be the example to him my papa had been to me. And after he left—there’s a word, for the planters who go into the dwarf villages after dark, set up liaisons with the women there. I’ve never been called by that name.

“I wanted you to know, Belle. As you’ve—been married, before, I thought—well, I thought you should know.” Gold finished by rising from his chair, looking down on her still form for a moment before turning and moving towards the door.

“It doesn’t make a difference to me,” Belle spoke softly, leaving her chair and walking towards his own, now motionless form. She halted a hand’s breadth behind him, and he turned to look back at her, his expression a riotous mixture of hope and trepidation. Belle licked lips gone dry, noting how his eyes were drawn to the movement instantly. “I mean it,” she repeated, more firmly now. “I have been married before, of course, but—I never felt this, never with Gaston, what I feel when I’m around you. I can’t explain, but—”

She broke off as her words were swallowed by her husband’s mouth, his arms grasping her and holding her to him with a desperate need that exactly matched her own. She had spoken candidly just now—never with Gaston had she experienced such an all-consuming rush of possessive desire as she did here and now, with this man—with Christopher…

It was he who ended the embrace, after long measureless moments. His head lifted from her and his arms loosened their hold, though he did not let her go entirely, for which Belle was grateful. She felt she would struggle, just then, to keep upright, if left to herself. 

“I must be off early tomorrow,” he said on recovering his breath, the hoarseness in his voice sending a delicious frisson of delight down Belle’s spine. His forehead dropped to just touch her own, and he murmured “But perhaps—on my return--?”

Belle nodded a vigorous assent, which caused a smile to grace her husband’s face—the first true smile she had seen on his visage. The sight caused her to smile, too, and they remained thus for some time more, smiling nigh idiotically at one another, still partially embracing, before the dim sound of chimes from the corridor outside brought them back to the themselves.

“I suppose I must let you go,” he said at last, which made her smile again, gently. 

“Only if we truly must stop,” she answered, unable to muster any regret at again being so bold. This was her husband, after all-- _her_ Christopher, and no one else’s…

With evident reluctance, his arms dropped to his sides and he took a small step back from her. “Don’t forget your book,” he murmured gently, moving around her to pick up the neglected Mallory volume she had placed on the table and handing it to her. Their fingers brushed as he did so, sending another delicate shiver through Belle’s frame. Abruptly Christopher withdrew his hand, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression tensing again with awareness as they stared at one another. Belle opened her mouth—to say what, she was not entirely sure—when he forestalled her with a low voiced, “Goodnight, Belle.”

“Goodnight, Christopher,” she whispered. “Be careful,” she added, pleading with both eyes and voice. _Don’t let me lose you now, just when I’ve found you._

He nodded once, as if he had heard her unspoken thought, and with no small exertion of effort, she turned away from him and directed her steps towards her room.

 

***

 

Some miles away, under the moonlight, Captain Killian Jones’ boat bumped softly up against land. The movement was not enough to awaken him, and as the only current occupant of the small vessel, there was no one to notice when the first scouts climbed aboard. Jones had whipped the two dwarfs who had rowed the boat nigh until they bled that afternoon, working out his frustrations on their poor backs, forcing the dwarfs to push themselves past endurance to get upriver as quickly as possible—and get Jones back to his store of liquor as quickly as possible. He had been needing to imbibe increased amounts, lately, to keep the sharp pins and needles feeling away from his hands and feet, and had laid in only an adequate supply for a journey of a day and a half, not having expected to waste several hours arguing about the validity of his claim to his own workers. Also, dwarfs had been a bit harder than usual to motivate, having been oddly affected by the sight of some strange birds flying overhead earlier that day, as they progressed upriver.

Hence, the whip.

Jones had proceeded to drink himself into his usual stupor when he finally allowed the dwarfs to halt for the night, having come back down to the boat to fall asleep, leaving the two workers to slumber by the fireside. It was perhaps down to their heavy exertion that day that the two workers slept so soundly that night, never stirring when the boat carrying their master slipped its rope and floated out into the fast current, which carried it quickly away upstream and down one of the tributaries leading into the jungle, away from Jones’ plantation.

Jones, heavily intoxicated, did not stir either, not when the boat first started to move from shore, nor when it settled into the faster current upstream, nor when, several hours later, it stuck fast in an outcropping located well beyond his plantation’s domain.

He didn’t even stir when the _marabunta_ scouts first started to feed on him. 

Not until it was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have enjoyed that last bit too much :)


	9. Chapter Eight

Belle was not truly surprised to learn, the morning of her husband’s departure, that Pots was wholly aware of the possible _marabunta_ threat. Considering the housekeeper’s relationship with Dove, Belle thought the surprise would rather have been if Pots had _not_ been in the secret.

If ‘secret’ such knowledge still was. Belle thought she saw, throughout the following two days, signs that the dwarfs on the estate were wary. There was an unease in the air, coupled with surreptitious looks that passed from one worker to another, which to Belle’s mind could only indicate an awareness of the potential danger, even if that awareness was incomplete. She mentioned her observations to Pots the morning after Gold, Dove and Jefferson had left for the dwarf village at the basin, and Pots had agreed with her. Belle had found the confirmation of her suspicions both reassuring, and anything _but_. 

“Will the dwarfs—” Belle had hesitated, uncertain how to voice her query without giving offence. Questioning another being’s courage was no slight affair, after all. “Pardon me, Pots, I do not mean to offend. But will the dwarfs not start to leave the estate? When— _if_ —the threat of _marabunta_ is confirmed?”

“There is no offense, Mrs. Gold. And no—those dwarfs who are currently on the Gold estate will not attempt to leave it.”

The older woman had spoken with such certainty that Belle had felt a great reluctance to question her response, though she could not help but feel there must be some other force besides loyalty to Gold as the motivating factor in such widespread steadfastness. Belle was honest enough to admit, even if only to herself, that had she found her husband one whit less enthralling than she did, she herself would likely have been tempted to consider abandoning the estate holdings and the Rio Negro--at least until the danger had passed. As it was—

Well. Sufficient to say that she found her thoughts dwelling on Christopher’s return with an overall feeling of eager anticipation, equal parts stimulating and frustrating.

She had thus been pleased as well as unsurprised at Pots’ cognizance of the current situation, as the other woman from unfortunate past experience had already collated a slew of activities that in her opinion would be best accomplished immediately to prepare against the potential threat of swarming, killer ants. Belle had awakened late the morning after speaking with Christopher about Milah, having missed the mens’ departure by some hours. Pots had seen to it that a hearty breakfast was kept by for the mistress, in addition to taking the opportunity to speak with Belle of her recommended preparations. Fortunately, most of these involved the sort of general tidying of the estate that could be taken by the other dwarfs for the semi-annual cleaning that would not be an unusual activity, if occurring a month or two earlier than expected. There was firewood to be gathered, drinking water and food supplies to be confirmed and documented in case of prolonged enforced sojourn within the walls of the estate, linens and bandages to be readied and aired, and several rooms to be de-cluttered and swept out, in anticipation of some of the inhabitants of the closer villages seeking refuge within the Gold estate itself...should the _marabunta_ threat actually be confirmed. 

It was to this last task that Belle had applied herself, reasoning that she would have the opportunity to both acquaint herself with the physical layout of her new household and determine just what furniture and clothing supplies were available during the tidying up process. The first day of Christopher’s departure had seen her going through two rooms on the south end of the estate’s courtyard, both of which were filled with a variety of furnishings and surplus household items acquired by Gold in his decades long life in the Amazon, in addition to a few trunks full of odds and ends that were confirmed by Pots as having belonged to first the boy, then the young man, Baden Gold. 

It was early afternoon of the second day after Gold had left that Belle’s eyes widened in surprise as she beheld the contents of the latest trunk to be hauled out and sorted through.

For the trunk was full of baby items.

Baby clothes…small, soft blankets…cloths only appropriate for the wiping, bathing or cleansing of a tiny, perfect physique…a collection of rattles carved into a rather impressive array of jungle specimens…and there, obstructed from view until the trunk in front of it had been dislodged, stood what was unmistakably a cradle.

Belle turned the miniature garments over in her hands, perplexed. Who on earth could these things belong to? Her first thought was that, for some unknown reason, the dwarfs around the estate saw fit to store all their superfluous nursery supplies here—but she could think of no earthly way that such an arrangement could be at all convenient, for either Gold or his workers. For a moment she entertained the idea that perhaps Christopher himself had acquired the items in hopeful preparation for some future progeny of his own—but on the whole that notion seemed rather too optimistic an action for her husband to take. Also, the items, though clean and in good order, bore the unmistakable air of a previous, though gentle, use…

“Excuse me, Mrs. Gold,” Pots’ voice broke in, a tentative air about her tone and person, which was unusual enough to immediately divert Belle’s attention. Belle replaced the small shirt she had been holding atop a pile of equally adorable outfits and, on turning to fully face her housekeeper, was startled to see the other woman so visibly uneasy. 

“What is it, Pots?” Belle stepped forward in concern.

Pots licked her lips nervously. “There is—are—some visitors, ma’am. Mother Superior, and one of the novices. From the Rio Negro Mission.”

Belle was quite astonished. “Why on earth would our messenger have brought them here--?”

“I do not believe they were summoned by our messenger, ma’am,” Pots broke in. “More likely that the two parties crossed each other. Mother Superior is demanding to see you--at once.”

“ _Demanding_?” Belle echoed, piqued. “I’m sure it will do the good Mother no harm to wait a few moments, at least whilst I rid myself of this apron and head-kerchief.”

With Pots’ able assistance Belle managed to accomplish both, and she rather fancied the brief and straightforward physical task helped Pots regain her own equilibrium. The dwarf certainly appeared more composed as the two set off toward the drawing room to greet the attendant Mission women.

“Tell me, Pots,” Belle inquired softly as they walked one outer length of the courtyard, “what manner of woman is Mother Superior? I only encountered her briefly, at the docks the morning I arrived.”

Pots hesitated so long Belle began to wonder whether she would answer at all. When the reply did come it was stilted, and her discomfort of before had returned full force. “She is a—powerful--presence on the Rio Negro, ma’am. It cannot be denied that she does much good amongst the poor and needy on the other planters’ estates.”

“But not here?” Belle asked in surprise.

Pots’ mouth relaxed to a slight smile. “Your husband takes care of his own, ma’am.”

Belle felt herself returning the smile, then halted her steps as Pots stopped and turned to her mistress, the unease back in her face, along with what Belle was almost shocked to realize was a tinge of genuine fear. “Pots?”

The housekeeper spoke urgently. “The Mother Superior can be a dangerous woman, ma’am. You must be on your guard.”

“Dangerous? But I thought you said she did much good—”

“ _Much_ good, yes, but it is not for the sake of those she assists, but for the glory of the Mission itself. Those she helps incur a debt to the Mission, and if the debt is not paid, she is ruthless. And resentful of those with power to rival her own, those who see to it that some of the dwarfs, at least, do not rely on her exclusively for assistance.”

Belle began to understand. “Those planters like Christopher,” she finished softly.

Pots nodded. “She will try to destroy any who dare defy her.”

Belle was truly shocked by now, but had little choice other than to continue along in Pots’ wake, the housekeeper having resumed their progress towards the waiting guests.

“The help of the Mission will be necessary, if _marabunta_ have returned,” Pots went on hurriedly, as they came to the entry of the drawing room. “But it wlll come with a price, ma’am. Remember that.”

Belle nodded quickly, then stepped inside. Two women awaited her, both in black, both familiar, though one was in Belle’s estimation far more welcome than the other. 

“Good afternoon, Mother Superior,” Belle acknowledged the Mission leader coolly, then moved to hold out her hands to the young novice in the room. “Astrid! How good to see you again! I hope you have quite recovered --?”

The younger girl had moved quickly to take Belle’s offered hands, but a sharp voice cut through the reunion.

“Forgive me, but as time is of the essence there is little to expend on pleasantries, Mrs. Gold,” Mother Superior broke in abruptly. “I noticed some dwarfs collecting what appeared to be firewood outside the gates as we drove up—if Novice Astrid could join them--?”

“Oh, but that won’t be—” Belle halted after meeting Mother Superior’s eyes and realizing the true reason behind the request. “That is, of course.” Belle turned to meet the eyes of her young friend, noting with concern how the younger girl’s hands still clung to her own. “Thank you for your assistance, Astrid. Pots, if you would be so good as to show Novice Astrid to Le-roy, I believe he was directing the collection efforts outside?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Pots acknowledged softly, and Astrid exited behind the other woman, her eyes meeting Belle’s again fleetingly, and Belle realized with a jolt that the same slight fear she had noted in her housekeeper was present in her former travel companion’s face.

Belle breathed once, deeply, before turning back to confront her other unexpected guest, her confusion high and unease mounting. She opened her mouth to speak, but was forestalled by Mother Superior stating in a biting tone, “I have been informed by your housekeeper that Mr. Gold is not here. It is most inconvenient--”

“I beg your pardon?” Belle broke in, astonished.

“—but at least it seems,” the other woman continued smoothly, as if Belle had not spoken at all, “there is some reason to suppose that the threat I wished to discuss with him is at least suspected, here.”

“If you mean the possibility of a _marabunta_ swarm, then yes. We are aware of it,” Belle replied coolly, noting with some satisfaction the flash of surprise that crossed Mother Superior’s face.

The other woman recovered quickly. “I see,” she said after a brief pause, then nodded firmly. “Then perhaps my time has not been as wasted as I feared. I had of course hoped to discuss a plan of action with Mr. Gold—”

“My husband will be away for at least the next day. He had sent a messenger to the Mission, a dwarf—did the fellow never arrive?”

“A messenger? By what route, land or river?”

“By land.”

Mother Superior sniffed. “An unfortunate choice. The river is the far faster route, hence the one I took to get here. Gold knows that. A pity he is not more committed to the safety of the Rio Negro community.”

“He had need of our boats for his own journey—a journey undertaken expressly out of concern for the safety of this community.” Belle could not keep the slight defensiveness from her tone. There was something almost accusatory in the phrasing of the other woman.

“Oh, I have no doubt he would claim as much—so as not to leave any boats here, _unattended_ ,” Mother Superior said tartly, a knowing, unpleasant smile curving her thin lips.

Belle’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Whatever do you mean?”

Mother Superior’s gaze sharpened on Belle’s face, seemingly taking the measure of her and determining her somewhat lacking in intelligence. “If _marabunta_ are indeed swarming, you can be sure Gold would not want his workers to have too easy an access to escape from his lands. Boats would provide that.”

Belle was appalled. “Christopher would never _force_ the dwarfs to stay here, in danger for their lives!”

Mother Superior raised an expressive eyebrow. “He’s been rather more subtle about it this time, certainly. At least he didn’t simply burn their boats, as he did during the last swarm, ten years ago.”

Belle’s mouth formed an echo of the word, ‘burn,’ but no sound could be heard. She knew distantly that she must be presenting the appearance of a somewhat slowly-processing fish, mouth agape, expression blank with surprise.

“I suppose,” the leader of the Rio Negro Mission continued with a slight drawl, “that the only boat remaining on the grounds at this time is the one that will transport you to the mail boat. When are you due to evacuate, Mrs. Gold?”

Belle recovered herself, pulling herself as tall as she could. “I will be remaining here. With my husband.”

The surprise this time on the other woman’s face was unmistakable, and accompanied by a lengthy pause as Belle’s face was intensely scanned by a pair of searching eyes. “You’re not serious?” Mother Superior said at last. “If—someone—is preventing your departure, Mrs. Gold, I can undertake to alert the Commissioner for this region. I have heard he is currently at large on the Rio Negro, no doubt attempting to ascertain the truth about the _marabunta_ —”

“Mr. Jefferson is already aware of my decision. He is, in fact, accompanying my husband even now, as together they determine the extent of the threat.”

Mother Superior paused again, and Belle received the impression her next words were being chosen with some care. “Mrs. Gold, are you— _fully_ aware of the nature of this threat?”

“I am aware it is significant,” Belle answered shortly.

“Significant? Say rather deadly, and be done with it.”

“We are hopeful of mounting such defenses as to overcome the danger—”

“How? By digging a moat around this house, as if it were a medieval castle in France and the enemy a besieging army? Perhaps _marabunta_ could be classed as a kind of army, Mrs. Gold, but be under no illusions--water will not stop them.”

“It was not my impression that ants were particularly strong swimmers,” Belle retorted, attempting to stay calm.

“Monkeys don’t swim either, Mrs. Gold—yet monkeys cross rivers.”

Belle smiled slightly. “I would however rate the intelligence of monkeys as superior to that of ants--”

“--And inferior to that of man,” Mother Superior rebutted smoothly. “And yet, when _marabunta_ come, monkeys run.”

“It is my understanding,” Belle stated stiffly, “that the flooding of the plantations in this region is only a portion of the plan for preservation of the estate. Fire too, I had understood, will be used, if necessary—as I understand it was used during the last swarm.”

A wariness appeared suddenly in Mother Superior’s face, and Belle felt the other woman’s gaze sharpen on her for an instant, then relax. “Fire is the only weapon against _marabunta_ ,” she declared with certainty. “The only thing that will consume them, lest they consume us first. Obviously, any fire deliberately set must be put out as soon as it has purged the land of the ants. As your husband controls much of the dam to the river, I wished to consult with him immediately on learning of another swarm as to his intentions.”

“I believe he had the same idea—hence sending the messenger to the Mission.”

The other woman sniffed dismissively. “Such arrangements need to be precisely planned. They are too sensitive to employ the use of a go-between—there is too much at stake.”

Belle mused over that a moment, and found she couldn’t help but agree. “I believe lives were lost in the fire and flooding utilized during the last swarm. Is that not so?”

Wariness flared again in Mother Superior’s eyes, though it was gone the next instant, replaced by an almost smug expression that Belle couldn’t fathom. “Indeed. One couple, the Nolans, perished—in addition to some dwarfs. Someone neglected to give them sufficient warning of the plan to ensure the community’s safety.”

“And who was this ‘someone?’” Belle demanded irritably, annoyed out of good manners by the other woman’s self-satisfied air.

“It was never determined,” Mother Superior demurred. “At least, not publicly. There was investigation, of course, by both the government and the Church, but the general feeling was that the salvation of the majority of lives along the Rio Negro was worth the sacrifice of a few. Not,” she continued slyly, “that your husband’s reputation had much to lose by the—insinuations—put forth at the time, Mrs. Gold.”

“If that vile Jones is a measure of the typical plantation owner on the Rio Negro, I would think my husband could cause any number of fatal fires and still be the holder of a relatively pristine reputation—not that I at all believe him to be culpable, as you would appear to claim.”

“I claim nothing,” Mother Superior flashed back. “As for Captain Jones, he has always treated the Mission with respect.”

Belle snorted delicately. “Meaning he has provided the Mission with a financial motivation to overlook his many character deficiencies. I am not completely naive, Mother Superior. I am aware how the dispensation system operates, financial provision in exchange for protection of reputation. I would assume my husband has refused to engage in your blackmail scheme, and Jones has?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mother Superior declared, an expression that might have been a smile but for its malice spreading over her features. “But, speaking of sterling reputations among the planters of the Rio Negro, I’m assuming you’ve not heard the history of your husband’s _first_ wife—the late Mrs. Gold?”

“Indeed I have, ma’am. There are no secrets between Mr. Gold and me.”

Mother Superior raised an eyebrow at that. “Then you are aware that the former Mrs. Gold considered the “ _vile_ ” Captain Jones to be as respectable as Gold—or, at least, the lesser of two evils.” 

“Just as I am aware Milah Gold did not seek the shelter of your Mission,” Belle responded forthrightly, and could not quite suppress a victorious twitch of her own lips as Mother Superior flinched a bit at the words. 

She recovered quickly. “Milah Gold may not have asked for shelter with us, but she was not the only woman in this household who may have benefited from our assistance, and been thwarted when attempting to obtain it.” She stopped as Belle looked an astonished question. “Emma Nolan.”

“Emma?” Belle huffed a disbelieving laugh. “Regardless of Mr. Gold’s history with his first wife, I will _never_ believe Emma would have chosen to live at your Mission—or that she was forced to stay anywhere she did not choose to be.”

The other woman sniffed. “Believe what you will. It cannot be denied, however, that Miss Nolan encountered certain— _consequences_ —relating to her stay with the Golds. Consequences that would never have occurred, had she been placed under the chaperonage of the Mission.”

Belle stiffened at Mother Superior’s tone. Such condemnation was chilling to hear spoken aloud, although Belle was uncertain who was the exact target of the sentiment, Emma or Christopher? “What are you saying, ma’am?” she demanded at last, unwilling to continue to converse by insinuations any longer.

Mother Superior’s mouth took on a malicious twist. “I suggest you ask your husband, Mrs. Gold. It would seem there are secrets between you.” She rose smoothly, shaking out her skirts with a practiced and steady hand. “In any case, I will reiterate the offer I made you during our first meeting—an offer, I must observe, needing to be made with a peculiar frequency to the women of this establishment. Should you have need of any assistance in future, the Mission is an available refuge. To you, or to any other soul in need. And it will remain so whilst I draw breath.”

Belle had risen when the other woman did, and now only just prevented herself from physically recoiling from her guest. She realized distantly how very bizarre it was, that with the threat of an army of marauding ants rampaging through the Amazon, it was only now, in this moment, that she had truly felt her first frisson of fear. There was a definite tinge of fanatical malice about the Mother Superior, likely controlled for most of the time, but a small sighting of it had just slipped out. It caused Belle to feel greatly ill at ease. She knew instinctively , in that instant, that there was nothing the woman before would not do, and no one she would not sacrifice, if it meant the survival of her Mission. 

It was a thoroughly chilling realization, though Belle would not recall it for some time. 

For it was then that the first screams started to rend the air of the estate.

 

* * *

 

Astrid could hear someone moaning softly, pitifully. She tried to follow the sound, tried to find where it came from, wanting to comfort the poor soul, the sound was so desperate…but it was dark, so dark, and she couldn’t seem to move, her arms and legs and head felt so _heavy_ …

She must have drifted off, she was not sure for how long, but when she returned to herself the moaning had started again. Astrid suddenly realized the sound was emanating from her own lips. She gasped, blinking her eyes open and trying to sit up all at the same time, only to have the room around her abruptly tilt sideways as her stomach revolted and she moved her face over the side of the cot she lay on to heave uselessly. Nothing came from her mouth, it appeared her poor stomach had emptied itself of everything available earlier. Astrid closed her eyes against the sudden onslaught of memory, laying back and moaning once more at the images that had imprinted on the back of her eyelids.

A man—no, a body…if what she’d seen could still be described as a body…more a collection of bones, bits of cloth still clinging on in places, flesh hanging from the bones, mangled…consumed…horrifying…

The bones had been bundled in the back of a wagon, driven up from the docks. One of the dwarfs was saying a boat had drifted in, and the body—the bones—had been in the boat…Le-roy had been beside her, saying it must be Captain Jones, that he recognized the boot still clinging to what had once been a foot…

Then sickness, and screams…her own screams…

Astrid emitted another, louder sound, then suddenly found that her forehead was being covered by something damp, and a large, comforting hand had taken one of hers.

“There now, little fairy,” a deep, gruff voice spoke softly, soothingly, pressing her hand in a gentle gesture of comfort. Astrid turned towards the voice, knowing instinctively that its owner represented safety for her. She didn’t question, in that moment, why she would be convinced of something so absurd. They had hardly met, and yet…

Her eyes opened again and met those of her caregiver, that same dwarf from her memories. 

_Le-roy_.

“Is she awake?”

Astrid moved her head slightly to look beyond Le-Roy towards the doorway where Mrs. Gold stood. Le-roy half turned in his seat, positioned by the cot.

“She’s been drifting in and out,” he replied softly.

Mrs. Gold nodded. “Thank you for caring for her, Le-Roy. Mother Superior has gone, she decided it was imperative to get back to the Mission as soon as possible with the discovery of…well…Novice Astrid will remain our guest, for now. I’ll send Pots in as soon as I can with some tea or broth or something... It would likely do her good to have something inside her, the poor lamb was understandably hysterical. It certainly was a sight to upset anybody.”

Le-roy grunted softly in acknowledgement. Astrid lay on her cot, eyes at half mast, clinging to Le-roy’s hand as if it were a lifeline, letting the other two continue to converse without any input from her. She caught words here and there, “ _preparations_ ,” “ _fire_ ,” “ _dams_ ,” but could not summon the energy to follow the discourse. 

Eventually Mrs. Gold must have left, for Le-roy was facing her again, his eyes full of concern, Astrid’s cold hand held snugly in his own larger, warm one


	10. Chapter Nine

Belle was faintly surprised by the intensity of the thrill that hummed through her veins as Christopher entered her bedroom, the night of his return.

_Their_ bedroom, as of tonight--if Belle had anything to say about it. 

She was aware her husband had returned, of course; she had even interacted with him more than once already, today. She had gone to the docks with Le-roy earlier that afternoon to welcome the travelers back, and had remained long enough to wish Jefferson, who was to return immediately to his headquarters to make his reports and secure relief supplies, a safe departure.

“How bad is it?” she’d inquired softly of the Commissioner, Christopher having moved some paced down the dock after an all too brief embrace to confer with Dove and Le-roy. Fatigue and worry was writ large on the faces of all those returned.

“Bad enough.” Jefferson’s tone, usually so buoyant, had been bleak, but he’d summoned a tight smile as Belle had worriedly searched his face. “Though not as bad as the last bout, is the consensus,” he’d added. “This swarm is thought to be perhaps at sixty percent strength of the last.”

“That’s something, anyway,” Belle had sighed.

Jefferson had grunted beside her. “It’s still a damnable risk. I do wish _you_ at least would reconsider—”

“I can’t leave him to face this alone, Jefferson. And what of the dwarfs, those who live on the estate and the surrounding lands?” Belle had sighed again, the weight of her increased knowledge, gathered the last few days from Pots and the influx of dwarf families seeking the estate as a refuge, lying heavily on her tired mind. “Everything they have is tied up in Christopher’s success here. If it is all wiped out again, it’s not only he who will have to rebuild from next to nothing.”

“I know. But after what happened to Jones—”

_“Please.”_ Belle had put up a pleading hand to halt any further discussion of that particular tragedy, but had been unable to stop the slight shudder that went through her frame. “It was so horrible.” 

“A bad end,” Jefferson remarked somberly. “But illustrative, as nothing else could be, of the risks you run in staying here.” He had stopped at Belle’s repeated, insistent gesture, and when next he had spoken it had been with an obvious attempt to lighten the mood. “The oh so superior Mother Superior did impart other tidings, besides the loss of Jones. Apparently, my return voyage will yet boast a female presence, even in your absence, Mrs. Gold? That little half-Sister, what was her name? I take it she was abandoned here, and will be voyaging down the Negro back to safety with me?”

“Novice Astrid was quite undone when we first—found—Captain Jones,” Belle had confirmed.

“As well she might have been, poor thing. Well, I’ve no objection to taking her along—though perhaps she’d find the prospect of another river voyage with me nigh equally as frightening as a _marabunta_ swarm,” he had finished with a half- hearted attempt at humor.

“You may ask her yourself,” Belle had responded, having caught sight of the young woman in question making her way amongst the dwarfs who had returned with Gold, Jefferson and Dove, passing around the food supplies and drink that had been prepared at the house as soon as the boats had been sighted. “Astrid!”

The novice had moved toward Belle almost immediately, though not, Belle had noted, before exchanging a brief word in passing with Le-roy. Belle had felt rather than seen Jefferson’s surprise as he recognized the young woman. Her black dress from the Mission had been exchanged for some of Pots’ things, the two women being of a height and build, and no doubt the Commissioner had taken her, from a distance, for what she now quite closely resembled--a dwarf woman.

“Commissioner,” Astrid’s soft voice had greeted Jefferson, who had offered with some gallantry to convey her back up the river, though cautioning her that she must needs be ready to depart within the half hour. Astrid had looked confused at first, then had declined, politely but firmly, giving as reason her extreme reluctance to abandon Mrs. Gold, or any of the inhabitants of the estate. Belle had noted the girl’s eyes moving surely across the dock to Le-roy as she had spoken, and as if he had felt Astrid’s look, Le-roy had glanced up that same moment and beckoned her over to him with a gesture. Belle and Jefferson had watched her go, a quietly efficient and reassuring presence as she passed through the dwarfs gathered for food or information.

“She has—altered,” Jefferson had observed, puzzlement apparent in his tone before he gave a small shrug. “Perhaps the little half-Sister is one of those rare beings who only reveal their true mettle in crises.” 

“Perhaps,” Belle had agreed neutrally, having suspicions of her own as to the origin of the change in Astrid. Those would be saved for discussion later, with Christopher. “She has certainly been of enormous assistance the last two days—I don’t know quite how Pots and I would have managed without her.”

“Well, as my services are apparently not required as the savior of damsels in distress, I’ll not keep you, Mrs. Gold. Be on the watch for my return with relief supplies by river in approximately one week. My abandonment of you all, you see, has its purposes. We can’t all be heroes like your husband and the little half-Sister.” Jefferson had ended on a somewhat bitter note, though Belle had realized it was directed inward.

“Let us say rather, we cannot all be heroes in the same way,” Belle had corrected gently, and was rewarded by the beginning glimmerings of the Commissioner’s usual grin. 

“There,” he’d replied, clasping her hand in his. “You _must_ survive, Mrs. Gold, I absolutely insist upon it. The Rio Negro will not be bearable in future without you.”

“Good bye, Commissioner,” Belle had said, laughing, only to be immediately corrected herself.

“Let us rather say ‘au revoir,’ Mrs. Gold. It has a much less dire connotation under the present circumstances, don’t you think?”

Belle had agreed as much, and moments later rejoined Pots, who with Astrid and Le-roy had begun to move back to the house. Mr. Gold, Pots explained, had already ridden off to one of the further outposts set up along the river after the last _marabunta_ swarm, to confirm Le-roy’s report that all was in preparation for its use again in near future. Dove was on his way to check the two more proximate sites.

And so the rest of the day had passed, active and full, and with a strange sort of relief, in that the tension that had been lying just under the surface at the unspoken threat of _marabunta_ had been converted to openly acknowledged apprehension of a confirmed, coming swarm. It seemed strange, but was undoubtedly true, that the absence of any doubt made the situation slightly easier to endure.

It also made certain thoughts harder to set aside. Belle was not sure if her increased— _awareness_ —of her husband was only natural, given the unusual circumstances of their union, or if the current danger was heightening her emotions somehow. She almost didn’t have the energy to spare to ponder the question—every idle thought she had today had been given over entirely to musings on Christopher. Rather _indecent_ musings.

And now here he was. 

And they were alone.

Alone.

She had turned her head, looking up at him as he stood in her—in _their_ —doorway, her hands stilling from their current business. She knew her eyes were running over his form, as his were over her own, and she swallowed an urge to laugh at the renewed surge of relief she felt to see him standing there, whole and well.

Gold cleared his throat, and brilliant blue eyes met brown. He seemed almost uncertain of his welcome in this room, which struck Belle as simultaneously absurd and endearing. Hastily she extended a hand toward him, which was just as quickly grasped. He walked toward the mate to her own chair and seated himself with a soft sigh, her hand still clasped in his. It occurred to her distantly that these were the very seats they had occupied during the first conversation of their marriage, and she was startled to realize that only a single week had elapsed between then and now.

A slight pressure on her hand caused her to meet his gaze once more. His own look was full of concern, tinged with remorse. "I'm sorry I wasn't here, when Jones--"

Belle shook her head at once. "You couldn't have known," she said firmly. 

His mouth tightened. "Even so," he ventured, "it must have been--distressing."

"It was," she acknowledged simply, then offered, "Jefferson said this morning that at least I've now had the fullest example presented to me of what _marabunta_ can do, and in electing to stay I can at least be absolutely certain what I may be choosing. In that--he was right."

Gold ventured a half smile. "Well, it was bound to happen one day."

Belle allowed a small chuckle to escape her, perhaps more, in truth, than the weak witticism warranted, but she had acquired a much fuller appreciation for the benefits of gallows humor in the last few days.

Gold seemed heartened by her response, his own countenance lightening perceptibly at the sound of her laugh. “I did notice,” he went on, more surely now, “that the good Commissioner departed alone for the relative safety of civilization. I was surprised the young novice—I forget her name—was not with him?”

“Astrid,” Belle said softly. 

“Yes, that’s the one. When we stopped at the Mission yesterday—and Mother Superior informed us of what had happened here, Jones and the attack—she mentioned the girl had been stricken unconscious by the shock. Apparently, she made quite the rapid recovery?”

“Indeed,” Belle acknowledged, pondering for a moment whether to discuss her suspicions with Christopher now regarding Astrid, and deciding now was as good a time as any. The diversion would likely do them both good. “I believe there may have been a rather—particular—factor contributing to her improvement.” Christopher regarded her with a blank curiosity, and Belle dropped her eyes, a bit hesitant, now that she came to it, to actually commit her musings to speech. Suppose there was some taboo against it? 

“Do you know—“ she began abruptly, then swallowed and started again. “Have you ever known it to be the case, that a—a foreign woman—and a dwarf man, came to care for one another?”

To Belle’s relief Gold appeared merely puzzled, and not shocked. “I don’t believe I ever have known of such a case,” he answered thoughtfully, using his free hand to rub his jaw reflectively. “The reverse, while not common, is not unheard of either. I think the sheer lack of numbers of the women in question has likely been the barrier, but—” he broke off, his startled gaze meeting Belle’s, as if only just now realizing the full import of her where her questions tended. 

“Do you mean that this _novice_ has formed an attachment with a dwarf?”

Belle hesitated, then gave a cautious nod. “I believe so—not that she has confided as much in me, but—yes. I do believe so. With Le-roy.”

Gold appeared stunned. “But, surely they hadn’t met before a few days ago?”

Belle smiled almost shyly. “A sufficient time frame, sometimes,” she murmured softly, and was answered by a look of awareness coming over his face, and another increase in the pressure of her hand in his. They both sat there, quietly pondering the situation for some minutes. Eventually, Gold let out a long sigh. 

“For what it’s worth, he appears to be a very able fellow. Dove was telling me that Pots had said Le-roy had been nigh indispensable with the preparations here in our absence. Coming from Pots, that is rare praise indeed.” His mouth frowned a bit before he continued. “It would mean quite a difference in circumstances for her, I fear. No dwarf is very wealthy, or worldly—they value a simple life, here.”

“Well, she _had_ been about to join the Mission forever,” Belle rebutted gently. “I think she’s prepared to do without many of the usual comforts of life.”

Gold nodded at that, a sly smile creeping across his countenance. “What a pity for the most superior Mother Superior, to lose a novice in such a way.”

“She seems capable of bearing with any loss, save that of the Mission itself,” Belle observed drily, remembering her encounter with the head of the Mission a few days past. “Were you able to discuss arrangements for the defenses with her?”

“We were. The dwarf settlement at the basin was able to give more than sufficient information about the current whereabouts and speed of this swarm; they’d even run across a scouting party, of sorts—possibly the one that did for Jones. I have a specimen in my bags outside.” Gold smirked and squeezed Belle’s hand reassuringly as she jumped slightly in her seat. “It’s only one ant, dearie, and he’s quite contained. Save your worry for the millions soon to follow him. After we left the basin we journeyed to the Mission, and were met with the tidings of what had occurred here. Mother Superior agreed on the signals and timing for the fire, while the estate here will control the water supply along the river and flood the entire area, if necessary. Fortunately, this swarm seems to be following a similar course to the one ten years ago, so we have a basic outline, of sorts, of how to proceed. We have two days, as long as their course and speed does not alter, and I have dwarf scouts posted as lookouts to give as advanced notice as possible.”

Belle stamped down the tiny flare of fear that threatened to consume her from within at the thought of what might happen in two days’ time, and freed her hand to busy herself again with her sorting. “It seems everything is arranged,” she responded, distantly pleased that her voice was steady. She could feel Christopher observing her, noting for the first time exactly what it was she was handling. She felt, rather than saw, the tension subtly stiffen his frame, and gratefully latched onto it as another, most welcome, diversion from the frightened turn her mind was taking.

There was a prolonged pause before a quiet, "What are you doing?" was nearly whispered from the man beside her. 

Belle kept her eyes on her hands, finishing folding one blanket and setting it onto the growing pile before reaching for the next in the basket at her feet. "Sorting through the baby clothes I found while assisting Pots with cleaning out the spare rooms to make provision for the dwarf families." She sent a quick, sideways glance at her husband, then continued, “I wasn’t sure if you would want these to be used by anyone else, so I had them brought in here. The cradle, too,” she added, nodding to the small additional piece of furniture in the corner.

Gold swallowed audibly, just before Belle looked up to meet his eyes. “They’re Henry’s, aren’t they?” It was more statement than question, but she put it as gently as she could. Christopher’s expression had again become the inscrutable mask she had encountered on their first meeting, but at her words his mouth relented, softening into a wry quirk of the lips, while his eyes slid away from her own and onto the pile of baby items still to be sorted before them. Belle waited patiently, half convinced she knew well enough what had occurred, but undeniably curious about some aspects of the matter.

Gold sighed again, more heavily than before, then sat back with an air of decision and met her gaze once more. “I’m sorry, Belle. I didn’t say anything before, because—well, in the first place, it’s not really my tale to tell. When I realized Bae and Emma hadn’t told you, I wasn’t sure—”

Belle leaned forward and placed a soft finger against his lips, which stilled them instantly. She noted his breath quickened under her digits, and was more than half tempted to abandon this conversation in pursuit of other ideas, but—she did want to know what had happened... “You don’t have to tell me anything about it, if you would rather not,” she assured him firmly, “or if you feel it would be betraying a confidence. But,” she let a small smile of her own show itself, “I would hardly be human if I didn’t own to a bit of curiosity about what happened. I give you my word I would discuss the matter openly with no one else—and I think if I knew all the facts, I’d be in a better position to deal with the oblique references of Mother Superior, in future.”

Gold’s hand came up to cover her own, moving it from his mouth to rest against his leg. “So, she referred to it, did she? Must have slipped her mind by the time I saw her.” Gold’s lips took on an ugly look as he referred to the Mission leader, but it faded the next moment as his eyes came to rest again on his wife. “I trust you, Belle. I know Bae and Emma do as well—I think their reticence to be more open with you was solely for Henry’s sake. The stain of bastardy can be difficult to eradicate, and until they were sure of us— _lasting_ —”

“I’m sure of that,” Belle interrupted softly. 

Something flared in her husband’s eyes at her words, and he lifted her hand back to his lips to press a light kiss to the palm. Belle again had more than half a mind to tell him to forget the story, that it would keep, or never need be told at all—but before she could form the words Christopher had shifted back in his chair and begun to speak.

“Before speaking of how Henry—came into being, shall we say?—I should probably tell you a bit more about Emma’s situation, the Nolans, and how the family came to this part of the world. Emma’s parents, David and Mary Margaret Nolan, were missionaries—of a different sect than the women of the Rio Negro Mission, and constantly at odds with Mother Superior because of that difference. Or I should rather say, Mother Superior was at odds with them, for truly I don’t think either of the Nolans ever had a harsh word for a living soul. The couple expressed that they had felt a calling to come to the Amazon, and never appeared to regret the choice. Emma certainly never seemed anything but at home here. Adaptable, would likely be the best word to describe all the Nolans. Adaptable, and capable, and kind. 

“They lived in one of the dwarf villages that was wiped out during the last _marabunta_ swarm, and had come to this part of the Rio Negro perhaps five years before that time. Emma was their only child, and as she was of an age with Bae, the two of them naturally fell in together. We saw them all very frequently; David Nolan was a minister, but the trio could be encountered up and down the Negro assisting the dwarfs in whatever way was needed. It was quite a different approach to the Mission’s, who require those in need to come to them, and I’ve always suspected the Nolans’ popularity amongst the locals was the root of Mother Superior’s quite strong distaste for the family.

“I’m not sure, even now, when exactly the relationship between Bae and Emma—changed. Doubtless I should have expected something of the kind, the two of them constantly in each other’s company, and largely unchaperoned in a way that would have been unheard of in more usual circumstances. But I suspected nothing, I confess. Oh, I had noticed Bae’s moodiness, but at that time we had been exploring the idea of his leaving the Amazon to acquire further schooling, in the law, perhaps. Jefferson had some contacts, in England and the United States—New Orleans, as it happened—and I suppose I assumed any agitation in his manner was related to the changes that were likely to occur for him in the near future. And then, of course,” Gold exhaled slowly, “the first rumblings of what would become the _marabunta_ crisis of ten years ago began. Which, I suppose, is the only excuse I can offer for being entirely unaware of the situation between the two young people right in front of me.”

“You mustn’t blame yourself for being distracted, in the circumstances,” Belle observed mildly.

Gold’s mouth tightened wryly. “Your determination to give me the benefit of the doubt is appreciated, but undeserved,“ he replied heavily. “I wasn’t simply distracted, Belle. I was almost entirely ignorant of the threat we were about to face, and arrogant in the way that ignorance fosters. I was determined, then as now, to hold what I have here, but my methods then were—rather ruthless. The headmen of the dwarf villages gathered here to discuss the impending threat. I’d never heard of marabunta, couldn’t conceive that what I was being told was no less than the simple truth—that we were up against an enemy that had the potential to wipe out all life along the Rio Negro. Some of the headmen wanted to make preparations then to evacuate their villages, move their people by river away from the swarm’s path, return when the _marabunta_ had gone.” Gold’s face and voice took on a grim aspect Belle had rarely noted in him before. “I couldn’t let that happen. I thought with help the danger could be got through, but even then I realized that alone, I would be done for. I called the headmen every name I could think of, that night—cowards, cravens, weaklings. They stayed that night because they were ashamed. 

“They remained after that because I had their boats burned.”

Belle knew her sharp intake of breath had been noted by her husband, though the increase in pressure of her hand in his was the only outward sign of his awareness given. “Mother Superior, when she was here, mentioned that such a thing had happened…I wasn’t sure whether to believe her, or--”

“It’s true.” 

Belle paused a moment, pondering. “I’m sorry you did it,” she said at last.

“If it means anything now, so am I. And, in fitting retribution, it was that action of mine that was at least partly responsible for some of the tragic loss of that swarm.” Gold’s free hand pushed through his hair, his eyes focused on past events that Belle could imagine made for the bleakest of memories. “With the boats burned, the dwarfs in this area had little choice but to start making for my estate, since escape by river was no longer an option. That had been my goal, to have as much population as possible driven towards my lands, to get assistants to provide lookouts, work the water pumps, and basically hold as much ground as we could. It was the only way I could see forward, to prevent the loss not just of what I had achieved in this land, but the livelihoods of most of the surrounding populace. Jefferson had felt it would be better if all in the area were simply evacuated, as quickly as possible, including me, but he didn’t act against the boat burning, seeing that if the land were to be saved in the long run that would be a positive end for all concerned. I had devised the plan of intentional fires, set from the Mission, followed by use of the water pumps on my lands to then flood the areas, saving what we could by eradicating the swarm quickly. A signal was agreed on between Mother Superior and myself, to be set off from my estate once we were ready with water pumps. In order to minimize the damage of the fire, and prevent it from blazing out of control, timing would be crucial. The Nolans were aware of what was planned regarding the fire and flooding, but…”

“But?” Belle echoed as the pause grew prolonged.

Gold met her eyes briefly, glancing away again to gaze into the past. “I hadn’t consulted them in my decision to burn the dwarf boats. On learning what had happened, David and Mary Margaret had no hesitation in letting me know their opinion of what I had done. They left the estate the next morning, citing the need to collect Emma from their home, where she had stayed, feeling unwell. David stated they also planned to provide any assistance they could in getting as many of the dwarfs as they could to safety, since the loss of the boats had likely complicated many a family’s preparations to vacate the region. I tried to convince them to stay, even offering to go and fetch Emma myself, but they wouldn’t hear of it.

“When none of the Nolans had appeared back at the estate by the next night, Bae became frantic. So far, the reports from our most distant lookouts were reassuring, so I told him if we still had no word by the following morning, I would ride with him to the Nolans’ village, to find and hurry the family back to the safety of the estate. Bae was too impatient to wait for the morning, and he set out that night, without my knowledge. Dove delivered that news at dawn, along with word that the marabunta had overrun the three most distant outposts overnight, and that the Mission had apparently decided not to wait for our signal, for the dawn had revealed smoke, plainly visible from the direction of the Mission. The dwarf village the Nolans lived in, Emma, and now Bae, too, were all well within the expected path of the swarm—and, consequently, the flames.

“There was nothing I could do. The tide of the river was such that the pumps would not be able to move sufficient water into the area to extinguish the fires for several hours—nearly double the amount of time we had discussed in hatching the plan. All I could do was sit, and wait until the tide was high enough, and curse myself that the boats that could have been used to go find my boy and all the Nolans and bring them to safety swiftly were at the bottom of the river.”

Belle made a small sound of sympathy and moved to hold his hand in both her own, caressing it softly. “It sounds as if there were many unfortunate decisions being made, in those days.”

Gold nodded somberly. “There were yet more to come, I’m afraid. Just before the tide finally rose and the flooding began in earnest, Bae and Emma arrived. They had just managed to stay ahead of the swarm, and the fires—their clothing was gray with soot and smoke. A few dwarfs arrived with them. But David and Mary Margaret…Bae had apparently told Emma that her parents had decided to stay at the estate, and that he had been sent to fetch her to safety. It was the only way, so Bae later claimed, that he had been able to convince Emma to leave with him instead of continue waiting for her parents. Needless to say, when Emma discovered the truth, she was furious, but just at that time there was so much to do, so many dwarfs had sought refuge in the estate that there was always something or someone that needed tending to, and Emma fell to assisting Pots—and avoiding Bae—for the next two or three days. The fire was eventually fully extinguished, and the waters receded. The house was left a shambles, but even at that was nigh the only shelter available anywhere in the area. With each passing day, hope for the survival of anyone who had been in the _marabunta’s_ path faded, but it wasn’t until almost a week later, when we finally felt confident enough to send out scouting parties to the affected areas, that confirmation of the Nolans’ deaths was discovered.”

Belle swallowed. “Their—their bodies, found?”

Gold nodded once, curtly. “They had not been attacked, by the _marabunta_ \--they had drowned. Their bodies were found halfway between their village and my estate, along with several dwarfs who had perished the same way.”

“How horrible,” Belle breathed.

He nodded again. “Emma’s grief, and her sense of betrayal by Bae, were insurmountable. She fell into a despair for a time—though I still wasn’t aware, until a few weeks later, that there was another—complicating factor—affecting the girl’s spirits.”

“Oh!” Belle gasped, for she had nearly forgotten what had set them on this path of reminiscence in the first place. “Henry?”

“Henry,” Gold confirmed shortly. “Pots came to me, told me what she strongly suspected of Emma’s—condition. I asked Pots to speak to her, find out for certain, and once she had—I sent for Bae. It was an exceedingly awkward conversation. Apparently, they had only discovered their—predicament, a few days before news broke of the _marabunta_ swarm. They had been working themselves up to confessing all to the Nolans, the idea being that they would basically throw themselves on David’s mercy, ask him to marry them, then present the entire thing to me as a _fait accompli_. It wasn’t a bad plan; I’ve no doubt David would have married them; he and Mary Margaret had always been fond of Bae.” Gold’s mouth pressed to a grim line. “Bae was determined to take Emma straight away to the Commissioner’s office as soon as the next boat put in, but I wanted to ascertain Emma’s feelings on the matter before I agreed to allow it. I saw her alone; she was deeply embarrassed by the situation, poor lass, and in the throes of grief. I told her something of my own marital history, and in turn she confessed her doubts about marrying Bae, with what had happened and the turmoil her feelings were in at that time. But there was the child coming, and she felt obliged to do what was best… 

“It was her mention of obligation that decided me, I think. I offered Emma a deal. I told her that she could take what time she needed, to decide if she truly wished to wed Bae, after what had occurred. I would myself bear the brunt of Bae’s displeasure by refusing to consent to the match for now, and as neither could be proven of age, that would be the end of it. And in return, if she found she could not marry him after some time to consider, Emma would leave their child with me to rear. I would guarantee its care and future, leaving her free to leave, if she chose.”

Belle felt her eyebrows climbing her forehead. “That was quite an _unusual_ proposition.”

“Perhaps it was,” Gold conceded. “But, as you know, my own first union left me with some perspective on the potential pitfalls of a hasty marriage. And I was primarily thinking of Bae. I didn’t want him, or Emma, to marry feeling they had been trapped, that there was no other way. Emma had been deeply hurt by what she saw as Bae’s betrayal during the _marabunta_ crisis, and I knew if she married him at that time, that feeling would influence their lives ever after. Perhaps even influence her feelings about their child. All of them deserved better than that. And the fact that she accepted my terms told me it was right she should have the time to consider.”

“What was Bae’s reaction?”

Gold’s mouth took on a wry twist, and he used his free hand to feel his cheek. “The first and only time my boy raised his fist to me.”

_“Did he—hit you?” “No. I hit him…in my defense, I was only 16.”_ Belle nodded in comprehension, recalling in a flash her exchange with Bae while discussing her prospective husband’s temperament, all those long months before. She mused a few moments longer on the matter, then voiced the obvious conclusion. “Even with such a tragedy between them, it seems they found a way to reconcile, in the end.”

Gold grunted softly. “Bae’s falsehood was only one of many—how did you refer to them?—'unfortunate decisions,’ that had likely contributed to the Nolans’ deaths. Eventually Emma came to feel Bae’s role was rather small, compared to the rest of the actors involved. The _marabunta_ , of course, played a role, as did I with the boat burning. David and Mary Margaret themselves had the option to remain in the safety of the estate, and chose freely to leave. And, of course, Mother Superior and her precipitous setting of the fires.”

Belle was puzzled for an instant, then looked the question to her husband. “Did she—could she possibly have ordered the fires started before the signal was given, in order to—?” Belle couldn’t quite bring herself to complete the question, but Gold supplied the answer regardless.

“To bring about the deaths of rival missionaries, under cover of a natural disaster that had not been seen in a generation? I admit, it took some time for the thought to occur to me, though once it did I found I could not dismiss it, fantastical though it seemed. Some months went by before I had any reason to encounter Mother Superior, and when next I did, she stated to my face that she had heard a rumor that young Miss Nolan, who had refused her offer of refuge at the Mission, was increasing. We had been careful to keep Emma relatively confined to the estate, since her condition being widely known could of course be ruinous to her reputation, and that of the child. I was inspired to give voice to my suspicions, that the timing of the fire had been deliberately altered by the Mission, to eradicate more than one perceived threat.”

“How did she react?” 

“She didn’t say anything. Of course, I could never prove it—but there was this flash in her eyes, a look of malice and triumph,” Gold took a breath and brown eyes again met blue. “I have no doubts, Belle.”

Belle shivered. “I felt it, when Mother Superior was here--she’d do anything to protect the Mission,” she murmured, half to herself.

Gold nodded grimly. “I think she’s proven that. In any case, I implied that my silence on that matter would be contingent on her silence regarding then Miss Nolan’s condition. Again, she did not respond directly, but nor have I heard she had broached the subject since.”

With an effort Belle shook away the lingering memory of the fanatical gleam she’d glimpsed in Mother Superior’s face, focusing instead on what remained untold of the union of the younger Mr. and Mrs. Gold. “Did they eventually marry— _before_ , or--?” 

Gold appeared equally ready to turn the conversation back towards the younger couple. “The ceremony took place here, just before the final rebuilding of the estate was completed. Jefferson officiated, with myself, Pots and Dove as the only official witnesses. There was, however, another, much younger guest who attended—and from what I recall, he soiled himself quite thoroughly midway through the proceedings.” Belle couldn’t hold back a giggle at this commentary, and Gold’s face relaxed into a smile. “The young guest’s christening took place immediately after, though Jefferson has assured me that the exact years on both the marriage license and the birth certificate for Henry Gold are unfortunately illegible. ‘The hazards of keeping records in such a climate,’ I believe is how he phrased it.”

Belle fell silent for a time, thoughtful at first, then eventually conscious of Gold’s hand rubbing rhythmic circles into her palm. "I am glad they found their way back to each other,” she said softly, ready to be done with speech for the night.

Gold nodded slowly. "As am I."

“Christopher, I—"

His hand stilled. "I understand--if you don't wish to, Belle. You must be exhausted, overwhelmed--"

Belle looked up to meet his hesitant gaze. “But if I _do_ —wish to? Do you?”

A small sound, something between a groan and a growl, escaped his parted lips. "I do. _Very_ much."

Belle smiled as her lips brushed his. "So do I."

So they did.

*** 

Gold lay awake later that night, beside a deeply slumbering bride. He had no idea whether her current state—a sleep bordering on the comatose—or his own, an unaccountable combination of lassitude and restlessness, was the more usual reaction to the evening’s activities. Though, perhaps, _unaccountable_ was the wrong word. Gold felt a grin nearly split his face in two as his memory did not hesitate in providing quite a detailed _accounting_ of the night's earlier events.

He recalled Belle’s assurances--that it was all right to stare, to stroke, to _savor_...recalled his voice, as damnably trembly as the rest of him, trying to keep steady as he said it sounded as if she expected him to devour her...recalled the almost dizzying flare of heat that had shot through him when a throaty laugh had been her only reply... 

Recalled all that had followed.

The recollection of it all appeared enough to cause more than just his mind to stir to wakefulness. Gold briefly considered attempting to wake Belle, deciding in the end that her sleep was likely needful after how—active—they had been. Instead he rose from the bed, as quietly as he could, and moved to the door of the bedroom, fetching in his kit and a certain sample he felt compelled to study. If nothing else, it should provide a distraction for his mind and body until his bride again regained consciousness.

He was fully occupied in study almost an hour later, seated at the desk facing the wall towards the foot of the bed, a few lit candles providing sufficient illumination to observe by magnifying glass the specimen in the jar before him, when Belle’s voice, groggy from sleep, floated towards him. 

"Christopher?" 

Gold half turned in his chair, filling his eyes with the sight of her, curls delightfully disheveled, sheet slipping to her lap as she sat up and looked about for him. “Here, sweet,” he said softly. 

Belle looked briefly puzzled. “What are you doing over there?”

“I was awake, didn’t want to disturb you. Come and see,” he beckoned her over, his pulse quickening as she crawled across the bed to perch on the edge and peer over his shoulder at the jar in his hand. He heard her surprised gasp and hastened to reassure her. “He can’t escape. He’s the captured _marabunta_ scout I mentioned earlier. I’ve been studying him, the face of my enemy. Who knows? Perhaps he’s been studying me.”

His bride put out a slightly trembling hand for the jar, and Gold handed it over. Belle rose from the bed, moving toward the candlelight, turning the jar with its lone captive this way and that, and Gold felt himself to be both utterly ridiculous in blushing at his own wife’s nakedness, and utterly incapable of stopping himself from doing so.

“How small and alone he seems, like this.” Belle said into the silence. “It’s quite a juxtaposition, that something that could be crushed with a fingertip—"

“—could wreak such deadly havoc,” Gold finished, moving to reclaim the jar. He held it for a moment longer, then set it with an air of finality on the desk before them. He sighed. “If I were a sensible man, Belle, would I leave this place, with all its horrors and wonders? Give up, stop fighting, let Nature reclaim her own?”

She rested her hand on his shoulder and her chin on his head and appeared to think on the matter, ultimately giving a small dissenting shake he felt, rather than saw. “You’ll never give up, I think that’s clear. It’s your fate, I think, to be here, in this place, fighting this swarm. And this way of life is worth fighting for. Besides,” she ended, moving back onto the bed, her voice taking on a teasing tone, “you’re not a sensible man. If you were, you would never have married a woman by mail.”

“I’m beginning to think that was the most sensible decision I ever made,” Gold argued softly, catching her eye as she looked up from arranging herself against the pillows at the head of the bed, the sheet tucked once more around her lithe frame.

Belle met his eyes steadily for several heartbeats, tilting her head. "You look as if you're trying to learn me by heart." 

Gold maintained his stare, letting the heat he felt at seeing her, just as she was in this moment, show through his eyes. "I don't have to try," he replied, and knew his brogue was stronger than usual. He let his gaze sweep her body, from her luscious chestnut curls to her dainty feet, outlined by the sheet, and back again. "I think I'll be able to remember the way you look, tonight," his eyes once again met hers, and he was conscious of their irresistible pull as he finished, " _forever_." 

It was a bit difficult to tell in the low light, but he thought she blushed. She certainly smiled, those remarkable eyes continuing to hold his as she gently bit her lip and raised an eyebrow slightly. " _I_ think you've been out of this bed long enough, husband." 

He knew his smirk must be bordering on the obnoxious. Knew also there was absolutely no hope for it, if so. "I'll have to correct that at once, wife," he replied, promise evident in his tone. 

And he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in updating this fic, summer schedules wreak havoc on writing time! On bright side, shouldn't be too much more to go, now :)


	11. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, we're back! Sorry for the delay, August is a blur. Hope nobody minds another POV switcheroo for this chapter, Gold first, Belle second?  
> Cool.

Gold supposed he shouldn't be surprised at the vagaries of the Amazon climate. Not after living in said climate for over two decades, anyway. 

And yet, surprise was his main sensation, as he replaced the kerchief he'd removed from his neck to wipe his damp brow, took another swig of water from his canteen, and urged his beleaguered mare forward at a brisk pace. He was nearly to the Mission, might even have reached it by now, if not for the more frequent than usual rests he'd had to take for his horse's sake--and, truth be told, for his own. Gold couldn’t deny that he felt wrung out, mind and body, the atmosphere heavier and more crushing to emotional spirit and physical vigor the closer he came to his destination. It was as if Gold and his mount were riding through a sponge, the air was so heavy with excess moisture. He couldn’t recall it ever being so bad as this before.

Perhaps _that_ was why--

Gold stamped down firmly on the wave of nausea and terror that threatened to overwhelm him. It was _not_ too damp for a wild fire to be set, and to catch. If lightning could do it, as occurred not infrequently during the monsoons, then certainly the ingenuity of man could succeed in accomplishing the same feat, even under these circumstances.

That's what he kept telling himself, anyway. For if the current climate somehow had rendered their plan impossible, then—

Well. Then they would die. All the souls who had sought the refuge of Gold's plantation, dead. Gold himself, dead. And _Belle_ …

As if the thought of his wife's name alone had some innate calming property, Gold felt the creeping tendrils of panic recede. Not entirely, perhaps, but enough for clarity of thought and firmness of purpose to return.

The foliage _wasn’t_ too damp for fire, not yet. Dove had declared against the idea this morning, when the expected plumes of smoke emanating from the direction of the Mission did not appear in the sky, and they had huddled together to hurriedly discuss what was best to be done. Le-Roy had also been against the idea that fire was now an impossibility, and Gold had in a short time come to hold the dwarf's opinion in high regard.

But then-- _why_ hadn't the fire been set at the appointed hour? 

The answer to that question was what Gold now rode forth to seek, having determined after morning was well advanced, and no tell-tale fingers of smoke rose in the sky, that the previously agreed upon timetable for dealing with the _marabunta_ crisis had been delayed. The situation was all the more concerning given the parties involved; Gold would be willing to bet his entire estate that nothing short of lethal force could have prevented Mother Superior from acting against the numberless, fatal force of tiny foes that threatened them all. He had no love or even liking for the woman, but Gold thought it unlikely in the extreme that the leader of the Rio Negro Mission would delay its salvation by as much as a second. Something must have gone awry. Gold could only hope the explanation was not what he feared.

Belle had raised no fuss about him leaving, he reflected, his mind turning to recall their most recent farewell in preference to spinning uselessly on the question of the status of the Rio Negro Mission and its leader. In his mind’s eye, Gold once again held Belle’s visage as he had last beheld it, her quiet, determined demeanor in the face of a situation that appeared to be growing ever worse. She had shed no tears that he had seen these last few days, had made no scenes. And her lack of outbursts stemmed not, Gold felt sure, from naivete. Belle realized fully the implications of their current situation, and just what a serious predicament this morning’s lack of activity from the Mission had placed them all in.

But she had simply continued her tasks as hostess of his estate, the chatelaine seeing to the shelter and feeding of the numerous dwarfs who had sought refuge in Gold’s home, and generally organizing said home with an ease that denoted prior experience running an establishment. Which, of course, was true. Belle had had prior experience as a wife in all ways, and she had not been reticent to share that experience with him during their few nights together, a fact for which Gold would never cease to be grateful. If anything had been lacking to seal in Gold’s mind the rightness of Belle as his wife, their time together over the last few nights had removed any lingering questions. It was truly as if they had been formed each with the other in mind, from the beginning. Gold smiled softly at the thought, inwardly cursing himself for a romantic fool. Of all the times to have fallen in love—

His thoughts scattered as he crested a slight rise that looked down towards the final approach to the Mission. His first notion was that something was deeply wrong, his second, hard on the heels of the first thought, that the near complete silence through which he had ridden hard for the last few hours had finally been broken by a low, unstoppable humming sound. 

His third realization was that, if he looked closely, he could almost see the structure of the Mission itself appear to move, so completely covered was the building by a roiling, seething mass of enemy army ants.

Gold leaned over the neck of his horse and vomited. 

 

***

 

Belle was nearly ready to drop with fatigue where she stood, but it was her body alone that was tired. Her mind, she knew, would start to whirring along the moment her body was still, and anything was preferable to the onslaught of catastrophic thoughts she knew awaited her the moment she was without constant occupation for her hands. Belle knew she would be prey to thoughts of Christopher—where he was, how he was, what he was finding at the Mission, whether the women there were safe, whether he was safe, or—

Belle cried out in sudden pain as the scalding water she was pouring into cups for tea for the many of the temporary inhabitants of her new home overflowed onto her hand.

“Careful, Mrs. Gold,” Astrid admonished gently, appearing on the instant with Pots and taking over the task of filling the cups, while Pots guided Belle just as gently but also firmly to bathe her wrist in some cold water. 

“It’s really nothing,” Belle protested halfheartedly, her attempt at bravado somewhat undone by the flinch she was sure Pots noted while her wrist was being tended to by the older woman.

“Nonsense, Mrs. Gold,” Pots remonstrated mildly. “It certainly could have been worse, I grant you. But I think it needn’t have happened at all, and likely would not have if you’d had a bit more rest. With the activity of the last few days—and nights,” she added, smiling slightly as Belle’s color rose, “you would do well to lie down for a time, now.”

“But I should be helping—”

“Astrid and I can certainly manage for an hour or two. And you know, you are not helping _him_ at all by needlessly injuring yourself.”

Belle sighed, an action her body rather unhelpfully decided to convert to a yawn, and gave in. “Very well, Pots. Perhaps I will lie down for a time. But you must come fetch me if I’m not up in two hours.”

The housekeeper agreed, and Belle made her way slowly to her bedchamber.

 _Their_ bedchamber. And _their_ bed, onto which Belle lay, still fully dressed, exhaustion overtaking her slight frame. But just as she had anticipated, her mind was almost immediately assaulted by fear, preventing her body from being lulled into slumber. 

_I can’t be made a widow so soon—we’ve had so little time, months on paper, barely a few weeks in person, only a few days truly as husband and wife—he can’t die, not now, not when we’ve just found each other…_

Belle forced open eyes heavy lidded with lack of sleep, propping herself half up on her elbows to shake away the goblin thoughts. At least, if she must be still and dwell on the unknowable future, she will fashion it as a place she would choose to be. Belle forced herself to imagine her life a year hence, Christopher alive and whole, standing beside her, the two of them having grown only closer over that space of one year—

A memory, recent and sharp, surfaced and Belle grabbed at it gratefully. She and Christopher, lying together in this very bed, not even a day ago, though it seemed half a lifetime past. Her hands had been playing idly with the sparse hair on his chest, her soft question voiced into the darkness around them the only sound to break the contented stillness they had fallen into. 

_“What shall we consider our wedding anniversary?”_

_His reply, just as soft, had been bemused. “What?”_

_She had half turned beside him, propping her head in her hand, her dark curls tumbling down onto his chest. “Our anniversary,” she had repeated, tone prim, eyes full of mischief. “I want to know what date you think it should be. I know the wedding day itself is traditional, but since we hadn’t even met then, I thought perhaps—the day I first arrived?”_

_Christopher had nodded slowly. “That would seem appropriate,” he had agreed, before his eyes had narrowed, catching the expression in hers and mirroring it. “Though there have certainly been other dates, recently, that might be even more worthy of anniversary commemoration.”_

Belle smiled now, recalling the conversation, and its aftermath. That was certainly far more worth dwelling on than her unfounded fears. More pleasant by far, at least. And surely a truer depiction of their future. It simply could not be, that she would be brought to this new life, this new happiness, only to have it snatched away as soon as it began—

A ruckus from the corridor interrupted her reverie. It was not unwelcome. Belle started up hurriedly, only one possible explanation for such a commotion presenting itself. She nearly ran to the door of their bedroom, wrenching it open with far more force than was required, and felt nearly faint from the relief that coursed through her at the vision that greeted her tired eyes.

Gold looked up from his conversation with Dove at the same moment, checking his stride that had been taking him towards the dining room and immediately altering his course towards her. Belle ran to meet him, clutching him to her fiercely as soon as he came within reach. They clung to each other for a long moment, breathing almost as one, before she was able to step away slightly and look up into her husband’s face. She knew instantly that the news was bad.

“The Mission?” she almost whispered.

Gold’s lips thinned, his expression tightly controlled. “Overrun,” he answered shortly.

Belle was dimly aware that others had gathered around them, varying parts anxious and eager to hear the answer to why the plan for their safety had not yet been put into action. Murmurs, fretful and fearful, started at Gold’s pronouncement, but all Belle was truly conscious of was a feeling of deep foreboding. She realized she truly did not want to have to ask the next question—the leader of the Rio Negro Mission had been no friend to her or to Christopher, it was true, but Belle would not wish such a fate on anyone she had ever encountered. Still, she had to know--

But the query was voiced by another before Belle could force the words out. 

"Mother Superior?" a young female voice, Astrid's voice, called the question, worry plain in each syllable uttered.

Gold, who had been holding a silent conversation with Dove at his side, caught Belle's eye as he replied, tersely. "Dead. Nothing living remains at the Rio Negro Mission.

Nothing, except the _marabunta_."

Belle swallowed convulsively, her ears unable to take in anything else beyond Astrid's sudden, strangled gasp at the news. She saw, as through a sheer veil, Le-Roy lead the quietly sobbing former novice out of the growing crowd around Belle and her husband, presumably to give the girl time to master her grief. Belle pushed back with all her being the tendrils of fear she felt creeping up to insinuate themselves around her lungs and arms and legs, suffocating and immobilizing her. It was a moment before she could trust herself to speak.

"What do we do now, Christopher?"

Her husband's mouth compressed further into a grim, hard line.

"Now, we burn."


End file.
